Perditor
by lembas7
Summary: At what point does faith become fanaticism? How far does belief go before it becomes a betrayal? Gabriel and Carl face a man whose crime is one of conviction. [Sequel to LAEVA DEI.]
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: The Van Helsing characters and premise are Stephen Somers'. The plot is mine.

PERDITOR

"What's going on?"

The hunter turned, ensconced in the few faint shadows which lingered in the well-lit catacomb laboratory. Dark, unruly hair was tossed back to let the hazel eyes hidden beneath focus on the slightly breathless friar. "I don't know." He paused, raising a brow at the friar's rumpled appearance. "I've heard that Jinette asked the entire Order to gather tonight."

"It looks as if nearly everyone has shown up," Carl observed, catching his breath and straightening his robes.

The two friends surveyed the catacombs in amiable silence.

It had been two months since the destruction of the Order's subterranean laboratory. Summer was burgeoning, the days growing warmer, and Deacon Ceslovas's gardens were awash with varied hues of green. The catacombs had at last been fully repaired, and craftsmen for the Order had returned to work there only three days past. Now, the largest stone chamber was crowded with members of the Order. Every conceivable empty space was being used as a chair, and even more men – and a few women – were standing, conversing quietly amongst themselves.

Gabriel stood in a corner near the back, his height an advantage. Ever one to attract attention because of his looks, skills, and the force of his presence, the hunter had remained quietly unobtrusive since the fight in the chapel.

"I think everyone who isn't on assignment, or ill, has arrived," Carl murmured absently, sharp grey eyes sweeping the large room. "Even Brother Yakov and Father Taddeo are here."

Gabriel raised a brow in silent question.

"I've rarely known Yakov to leave his archives," Carl explained patiently. "Whatever this is about, it must be important to drag him from his fusty parchments."

The hunter shrugged. "I wonder how long we'll wait to find out."

Carl stifled a yawn. "Not long, I hope."

Gabriel gave the young man a sideways glance. "Working late?"

The inventor wearily rubbed his eyes. "I've been trying to recreate some of the experiments I had in progress when the laboratory was destroyed, but a few of them were delicate, long-term projects. I need to get them up and running as soon as possible; they've already been considerably delayed by lack of materials and -" Carl was interrupted again by a yawn. "Where was I?"

Gabriel was about to answer when something caught his eye over the heads of the Order. "Look," he said quietly, gesturing.

Carl stretched, trying to see what had captured his friend's attention. "What?" he grumbled tetchily. "I can't . . . ah."

A space was being cleared in the front of the room, those nearest crowding back to open a rough circle. Santo, the burlier of Father Taddeo's assistants, lugged a sturdy wooden crate to the center of the circle. Only moments later, Cardinal Jinette stepped onto the box, raising his hand for silence. A hush quickly descended on the room, all present eager to learn why they had been summoned.

Jinette, with long practice at speaking to crowds, waited to assure that all eyes were focused on him before he began. "Knights of the Holy Order," he began, voice pitched to carry in the large room, "Thank you for attending this night."

Carl shifted uneasily. Jinette's manner was overly formal, unlike his usual practicality when dealing with issues that the Order addressed. Something unusual was going on.

"What I am about to say has no precedent," the older man continued. Candlelight glinted off the silver of his hair, peeking out from under the ceremonial red cap perched on his head. Despite his stern posture, he appeared to Carl's eyes very old. "I believe, however, that what I am about to suggest will benefit us all in this new age." He paused, searching the faces of the crowd around him before finally admitting, "I have decided to step down as head of the Order."

A quiet murmur flowed like a wave through the crowd, rising and falling on its own as the members of the Order waited to hear what Jinette was to say next.

"Since the creation of our Order, there has been an unwritten practice that the Head, once gaining this position, kept it until his – or her – death. The only exceptions occurred in times of great strife. It was an attempt to avoid the internal political maneuvering that would distract members from our true purpose. I have decided, due to my declining health and several recent events, that at this time the Order would be best served by the vigor of the young. I shall remain as an advisor, and a member of our Order, but I have spoken to the pope on this matter. I have his full agreement, and he has chosen the new leader of the Knights of the Holy Order."

"New head?" Carl was stunned.

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "What recent events?" he murmured absently, attention fixed on the front of the room. A sinking feeling filled him, and he was struck by sudden intuition that made him fold his arms tightly across his chest and lean back against the wall, a small frown marring his features.

"I should think that would be obvious," Carl hissed, standing on tiptoes to peer over the heads of his fellows, as Jinette continued to assure the men and women nearby that nothing would truly be changing.

Gabriel shook his head.

"I shall now present to you the new Head of the Knights of the Holy Order," said Jinette quietly. He stretched a hand out to his right, indicating a tall, stocky, fiery-haired man. "Gaspar Seaton of Caermarthen, in Britain."

The tall man with the crown of flame-colored locks took Jinette's arm, steadying the old man as he stepped down from the crate. Taking his place, the stern face of the new Head of the Order gazed out at the large crowd, his eyes locking on something at the back. Some turned to see what had so captured his gaze, and saw the unsmiling hunter propped casually against the stone, directing a measuring stare at the new Head.

"I greet you, Knights of the Holy Order," Gaspar began, just as the silence started to become uncomfortable. "It is an honor to lead the noble men and women who comprise our fellowship. I will do my best to ensure that we face the future with the strength and wisdom with which we have so long used to fulfill our mission. Thank you for your attention."

Gaspar inclined his head toward them for a moment, and then said, "Your Eminence, would you lead us?"

The old man, hiding his surprise, nodded and stepped forward. Within moments his familiar voice had taken on the resonance peculiar to worship, as he led them in a recitation of the mass' closing prayer.

Gabriel was silent as the chant rose around him, his eyes never leaving Gaspar, who had stepped from the crate and bowed his head in deference. As soon as the prayer was over, the formal atmosphere broke and people in the crowd began to talk. There was an awkward air permeating the room. Members of the Order did not know whether to celebrate or worry, for nothing like this had happened in recorded history.

Gabriel watched, pulling himself back to the meager shadows once more. Members of the Order were clustered in small groups, quietly discussing the strange turn of events. After several minutes of silent musing, the hunter stepped from the sparse shadows and turned to leave. He did not go two steps before encountering Carl, locked in conversation with Lamar. The dark-skinned man smoothly pulled himself from the exchange with the friar to address the hunter. "Ah, Van Helsing," he coolly greeted the taller man. "I had hoped to find you here this evening. Gaspar had mentioned a wish to speak with you after this gathering had concluded."

"Is that so?" Gabriel politely inquired, his face distant and tone bland. The hunter glanced from side to side, debating the ramifications of a quick escape, to find that there were men who openly supported Gaspar discreetly blocking his path. The hunter recognized several of them from the night he had been taken into custody, and raised a brow.

"It is a matter of most importance," Lamar continued, making careful note of the hunter's assessment of the situation. He breathed a quiet sigh when Van Helsing subtly relaxed his body, a silent acquiescence.

"Well then, when does he wish to meet with me?"

Eyes narrowing at the choice of words, which implied less acceptance to the request than was outwardly visible, Lamar tautly answered, "Immediately. If you will?"

He turned, and Gabriel stepped forward. When Carl moved to follow, however, he was gently pressed back.

"This is between Gaspar and the hunter," one of the men cautioned, not unkindly. "You have no business in it, friend."

Leaving the befuddled and concerned friar in their wake, Gabriel was escorted to the upper levels of the complex, and eventually was brought to the outskirts of the residence area. Gaspar's room was just as spartan as Jinette's had been, on the one occasion that Gabriel had been able to observe the Cardinal in his personal quarters. These rooms, however, were set aside from the quarters of the members of the Order for those who had more specific charges and heavier responsibility. Jinette still resided here, as did Taddeo, and several other men and two women who were in charge of various aspects of the Order's business.

He was left alone in the room, which contained a bed, a chest, and a small table and chair situated near the window. Gabriel ran his hand over the oak slats of the table as he thought. Gaspar wished to speak with him in private, and had held off until he had gained new authority. There were a myriad of subjects that had come up since his return to the Vatican nigh on two months ago, many of which would be somewhat troublesome to deal with. None of this boded well, but Gabriel needed to make the new head of the Order understand something that Jinette had easily come to terms with.

His contemplations were interrupted by the opening door, and Gabriel did not turn from his place, knowing that there would be only one person it could be. He waited several moments, measuring the silence behind him, before he slowly swung to face the man behind him.

"Gaspar." He greeted the tall man casually.

The head of the Order gave him an irritated glance, but let it be.

The two waited in silence a bit more, Gabriel openly assessing the other man. Finally, Gaspar broke the silence by stating, "Van Helsing." The hunter raised an acknowledging brow, ready to wait him out, but the new Head of the Order continued without pause. "I asked you here because there are a few matters I want to clear up."

"Such as?" Gabriel prompted him.

Gaspar's eyes flashed angrily, his lips pressed in a tight line. "It has been brought to my attention that you have been seen leaving the Holy City in the early hours of the morning. While this would not be a cause for concern, the fact that you return days later is troubling, without any explanation."

Gabriel frowned, a quick twisting of his lips, before smoothing his expression. Gaspar was a shrewd man – he guessed more than he knew and asked a single question which would involve several others to be answered without direct inquiry on his part. But if Gabriel could not trust and make peace with the new Head of this Order, he would have no choice but to leave.

"Do you remember what happened in the chapel two months ago?" he queried gently, testing the other man's memory.

"There was a battle to defeat a demon, for possession of a holy relic." Gaspar's words were clipped with impatience. He waved an irreverent hand, indicating for the other to get on with it.

"Think harder," Gabriel urged, widening the space between them. "Was there anything unusual about that fight? Taddeo tells me that all the watchers were somehow drained of energy after witnessing the battle – half the Order spent the next day or so recovering."

"What do you mean, Taddeo told you?" Gaspar scoffed, catching his turn of phrase. "You were there, were you not?"

"No, I wasn't," Gabriel returned. "Don't you remember what happened?" After a few silent moments, a frustrated Gaspar shook his head in the negative. And, standing across the room from him, Gabriel reached inside himself and brought forth the power sleeping within him, dormant and waiting to be called on. For a split-second, he shone with otherworldly light, brighter than the sun, before tucking it back down and away.

Gaspar paled, swaying a little at the force of the memory that rose within him at the momentary sight. Pieces that had been scattered in his mind reconnected with a jolt. Gabriel jumped forward, grasping his arm and guiding him down to the bed, where he not so much sat as dropped.

"I remember." Gaspar cleared his throat of the rasp, and straightened his backbone. "What has that to do with your disappearances?"

"I have not worked for the Order since that day," Gabriel said simply. He continued as the other raised angry eyes to him in protest. "I work with you. I cannot be under your command. I have a different purpose on this Earth. Even so, nothing keeps me from aiding you. I will continue to do so, as long as lending you my assistance does not interfere with my duty."

"And this is why you have been vanishing at all hours, for unknown lengths of time?" Gaspar demanded.

Gabriel nodded. "Yes – and it is also why I will continue to do so, despite protests from the Order, or even the Church. It is your choice, Gaspar, whether I work with you or not."

"And if these escapades are unacceptable?" Gaspar raised his chin, fists clenched on the edge of the bed, clearly challenging the hunter.

Not at all intimidated, Gabriel pulled back and shrugged carelessly. "Then I disappear. You loose someone uniquely qualified to do the most dangerous jobs this Order is faced with, and the lives of the men who will attempt to take my place."

"We could look for you," Gaspar offered a hypothetical threat.

Gabriel smiled a little. "How could you look for something that you would be unable to remember, someone with no more substance than a story?"

Gaspar frowned, his hands loosening on the covers as he thought. He stood, turning the situation over in his mind as the hunter waited patiently for an answer. There was only the sound of breathing as the man approached the one window in the room and stared moodily through the glass. "We need your skills," Gaspar finally admitted, turning from the darkened view to settle his gaze on Van Helsing.

"Enough to accept that I will have a loyalty that will always come before the dictates of this Order?"

That was the crucial point – Gabriel needed to ensure that the Head of the Order fully understood that loyalty to them was secondary, and always would be, to him.

Gaspar stared at him wordlessly for several moments, lips pursed and one hand absently tapping on the opposite arm where they were folded across his broad chest. "We both serve the same purpose, ultimately," he began, but the hunter cut him off immediately.

"No. I serve God, I serve mankind. You serve the church." Gaspar shrugged, and Gabriel cautioned him in a hard voice, "Do not make light of the distinction."

"Be that as it may, the two coincide more often than not," the Head dismissed his warning, and the destroyer sighed internally. "I can accept that your conditions."

"Good," Gabriel returned curtly, suddenly feeling the weight of his years. "Was there anything else that you wished to speak of?"

Gaspar frowned at him, and then shook his head in the negative. "For now," he murmured.

"Then I bid you goodnight." Gabriel closed the door quietly behind him, before looking up and down the corridor consideringly. There was someone he needed to speak with.


	2. Chapter 2

Jinette's room had not been changed much, Gabriel thought upon being granted entrance. The Cardinal had not been surprised to see the hunter at his doorstep, as it were.

"I thought you might come to see me," the older man sighed, moving to the room's sole chair and lowering himself onto it. The heart attack that had taken him by surprise several months past had drained him of the youthful energy he had always displayed. While long recovered, he tended to tire more easily, and was now painfully aware of his advancing age.

The hunter stalked across the room to the armoire, behind which was a concealed entrance to the catacombs. He glared at it for only a moment before turning. "When did you know that you were going to turn over your position?"

Jinette kept his attention on the parchments covering the small table in front of him. "I have toyed with the idea for several months, since it became evident that Dracula's hold on Transylvania was strengthening. The incident with the Spear made it clear to me that I will do no one any good if I work myself into an early grave," he snorted. "Men no longer live as long as Methuselah, you know." Jinette shot Gabriel a speculative glance, but the comment was enough to earn a secretive smile from the grim hunter, who said nothing.

The friendly silence grew grave as Gabriel's expression faded. "And Gaspar is truly the choice of the pope," he stated softly, moving to sit on the chest at the foot of Jinette's bed.

The Cardinal lifted his eyes from the papers strewn across the tabletop and regarded him for a long moment. "Gaspar is the third son of a minor noble in Caermarthen. It is a province the southwestern United Kingdom – in Wales. He stood no chance at gaining an inheritance, small as it was. His father was stern, though he loved his children, and in truth Gaspar had few prospects other than the clergy." Jinette obviously knew the younger man well. "He came to us through the archdiocese in Cardiff, which is most unusual. He is much accustomed to fighting the system to get what he wants, and he is considered a disappointment to his family, although he found a measure of peace with us, I believe. They wanted him to join the Royal Navy."

Gabriel looked at Jinette, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, hazel eyes bright. "I do not need you to explain the motivations of man to me," he said quietly, "Although I thank you for the lesson."

"It was not intended as a lesson," Jinette countered, shuffling the random papers into a stack. "It was simply to help remind you that we are only human."

Gabriel smiled. "I do not forget," he answered lowly, and continued without missing a beat. "Archdiocese in Cardiff? How is that unusual?"

Jinette fixed sharp eyes on the hunter in a penetrating stare, though he stifled a half-grin at Gabriel's tenaciousness. "Cardiff is in Wales," he began genially. "Gaspar's family, while landholders of wealth enough to be termed as minor nobles, are only just financially solvent. They have blood and marital ties to England, which as you know is for the large part Anglican-Protestant, and used them. As a boy, Gaspar was schooled in England, and while the exact circumstances are unclear, it is evident that his family believed his future to also be in England. He also spent more time there than in Wales, which makes his introduction into the Order from a Welsh diocese somewhat peculiar. That particular archdiocese has resources enough of its own to be able to support a small school for our members. It is also a safehouse and storage facility for our agents should they be in that area, and have need for it. Truth be told, once Gaspar gained admittance to the archdiocese there was no real need for him to journey as far as Rome to join us."

Unwilling to be distracted, Gabriel did not quite interrupt. "And how do you read the implications of all this?"

Jinette rolled his eyes at the statement. "Gaspar is young, charismatic, and intelligent; he is accustomed to battling against the odds, and as a result he has the active support of much of the Order behind him. Nothing you have not already discovered for yourself."

Gabriel's eyes were focused beyond the wall over Jinette's right shoulder. "Enough support to make an independent bid for control of the Order?" There was no answer, and he turned to Jinette with some surprise. "Surely not!"

Jinette shrugged. "There was no indication that he even had the desire to do so," the Cardinal responded. "But the possibility exited, and I am in no shape to wage a political battle alongside the fight against evil. In this way, I am at least able to guide and advise. Both Leo and I agreed it was for the best."

Pope Leo XIII was the ninety-year old head of the Vatican, and Jinette's longtime friend and advisor. He had been head of the papacy for twenty-three years, and had the ultimate control over all matters of the Order.

Gabriel mulled this over, and immediately addressed the issue with the most severe consequences. "I assume that you've withheld some information from him?"

"Of course."

He had to be careful, now – but Gabriel was well aware of the scope of the Vatican's information. They, however, were ignorant as to the range of his own knowledge. Though he would much prefer to keep it that way, he needed answers quickly. "I trust he has remained uninformed about the Brothers of the Cruciform Sword?"

Jinette gaped at the hunter for a long moment. When he found his voice, he managed to whisper, "How – how do you know about them?"

The look Gabriel gave him was slightly chiding, and amused. "Audric." Jinette started – he'd been unaware that Van Helsing knew his given name. "I was present at their creation." Once made clear, it was obvious.

"Ah." Chagrined, the Cardinal harrumphed loudly, using the time to collect himself. "Of course. No, he has not been informed. Do you think it a matter of particular concern?"

Gabriel tilted his head, fingers rubbing gently at the lid of the chest under him as he thought. "No. But the destiny of the Grail is soon to be fulfilled, and it is best if it remains ignored until the proper time."

"Soon?" Jinette cautiously fished.

The look Gabriel leveled on him made him blanch, but he refused to back down. The hunter, knowing exactly what to say to resolve the situation, spoke. "Within a century. Soon enough that any untoward attention paid to the group by the Vatican could interfere and necessitate more active involvement on my part. We shall speak no more of it."

Jinette nodded sharply, and then said, "Very well. Be that as it may, I do not think I have answered all your questions."

Gabriel smiled warmly. "You know me very well, Cardinal. I do have more questions. You said that recent events had had an impact on your decision. What recent events?"

The Cardinal shrugged. "The business that we deal with is rarely hopeful, and we are locked in a constant battle. The appearance of Beelzebul and the Holy Lance were only the most crucial of the many fights we have waged in my time with the Order." He shook his head despairingly. "The fight continues, and men and women continue to die at my instruction. All of this weighs heavily on my soul."

"What are you not saying?" Gabriel asked shrewdly, piercing the heart of the issue.

Jinette fingered a letter lying on the top of the stack of papers between them. The room's light was just bright enough for him to read it, if he so chose. "I have been receiving disturbing news from one of our more isolated enclaves. It is a small village in the state of Massachusetts, in America. It is made up completely of members of our Order. It is one of only a few such villages in existence. I sent a good agent there, to evaluate the status of the community. He sent several reports, which seemed innocuous, but the latest contain news of a more disturbing nature."

Gabriel reached for the letter that Jinette had picked up and was looking at, and the paper was wordlessly yielded to his grasp. Bent forward, the hunter wordlessly studied the paper. "And within the last two weeks, he has sent nothing at all," the cardinal murmured worriedly, clasping his hands together on the tabletop.

"_23 January, 1889,_" Gabriel read slowly. "_Something is wrong. Once welcoming, the people of Boxborough are now cold and aloof in my presence. I am unsettled, for even the children turn hard eyes on me. But this is only the most obvious strain between myself and the local people._

_There is another meeting tonight, and I fear the outcome. Many strange things have been happening in this village; all is not as it should be. I am now forced to take a closer look at things that I had not truly regarded before. Firstly, the town of Acton is not far from here, yet Boxborough is seemingly cut off from all interaction with them, or any others outside the village. Secondly, the people of this town, while familiar with and loyal to Derek Hastings, seem to put their ties to him in higher importance than even those to blood family – and I have seen him hide his true feelings from me more than once. There is something about him that he does not wish me to see, perhaps for fear of what I report. Lastly for now, these meetings. I know of no town that has council meetings three times each fortnight, whereupon all the people – including infants, the ill, and the elderly – faithfully attend. While I have not been denied entrance to these meetings, I have noticed that they tend to be held so that I conveniently 'miss' them – for the nearest post is in Acton, far enough away to ensure that there are several hours in which they are able to convene. _

_I have the feeling that the wind is changing in Boxborough, and a storm is soon to rip through the town."_

Gabriel lifted his eyes from the letter. "Is this the last report?" he asked, sobered by the disturbing missive.

Jinette nodded, face turned downwards in contemplation.

"It is very strange," Gabriel murmured absently, turning the page over. The parchment was folded several times, the bold writing covering the front and half of the back of the cream-colored paper. "Where are the previous letters?"

Jinette looked up from under heavy brows at the hunter. "They are in Gaspar's keeping."

Van Helsing cocked a brow. "Already? Of course," he sighed. "This latest is bound for him as well, I take it."

Jinette shrugged. "It is his decision now, on how to deal with this affair. I am very concerned. There is something seriously amiss in Boxborough."

"What do you -"

A respectful knock, slightly louder than was proper, sounded on the door, interrupting the hunter. Gabriel leant back as Jinette granted entrance to the person on the other side of the oaken panels, and only raised a brow as Carl peered through the doorway.

"Yes, Carl?" Jinette asked patiently, twisting to face the door.

The friar looked somewhat embarrassed at having interrupted a meeting between the two men, but he squared his shoulders and replied confidently, "I was looking for Van Helsing, your Grace." The illusion of aplomb would have been pulled off beautifully if his face had not been flushed, betraying his discomfiture.

Gabriel gave the Cardinal a half-smile, handed the letter back and took his leave for the night. Once in the dim corridor, he began heading to his own quarters, which lay deep within the security of the Holy City.

Carl turned to him, a curious look on his face. "What did Gaspar want with you?"

Gabriel shrugged. "There was something he and I needed to discuss." Seeing that Carl would not be satisfied with his vague explanation, he continued. "I needed to make my position within the Order clear to him, and to make to terms of my aid known."

"Did he accept it, then? Does he remember?" The friar asked warily.

"He believes that he accepts it, which is good enough for now," Gabriel replied. "And he does remember, partially. Whether or not the situation is settled for good – I do not think so. But we will see."

"And why did I find you closeted in with Jinette?"

Gabriel didn't look at Carl as he spoke, his voice very low. "Carl, have you ever known, in the rather extended history of the Order, for a Head to step down without just provocation?"

Carl opened his mouth, searching his memory for an answer, and shut it again. "It has happened once or twice that Heads have yielded their position to a successor, instead of keeping it to the grave," he answered uncertainly.

"Yes," the hunter hissed, nearly whispering. "But in there were only three such cases. In the first, the Head went disguised as a less important member of the Order to battle an evil seeking him out. In the second, the Head did so to avoid persecution by the Romans. And in the third case, the Head was general of an army of France, and knew that she would die; she relinquished her position when she realized her destiny."

Carl frowned. "So, what is the Cardinal's motivation?"

Gabriel glared at a nearby tapestry depicting the snake tempting Eve in the Garden. "I don't know," he admitted. "Times are changing. This century more than any other in recorded history will see much alteration of almost everything. But some things do not change. Jinette claims that he has stepped down because of his ill health. And that may be part of the reason. The influence he now has over Gaspar is a crucial factor, certainly. But I don't know."

Carl grinned, trying to lighten the pall that seemed to have fallen over the two friends. "I thought you knew everything," he teased lightly.

"I'm not omniscient," Gabriel snorted, "and I wouldn't want to be. I have enough to do on this Earth as it is."

It was strange, really, to hear such a blunt reference to the quiet knowledge that lay heavily between them. It happened very rarely, but when it did, a shiver coursed down Carl's spine at the reminder of his friend's true nature. Now was no different.

The feeling vanished as soon as Gabriel turned a mischievous smile on his friend, knowing exactly how Carl felt about the issue. "Hey!" the friar cried indignantly. "You did that on purpose!"

"Did what?" Innocence fairly dripped from every syllable, but Carl wasn't fooled.

He opened his mouth to retort, and Gabriel's laughing expression bloomed into a full grin. The lighthearted banter continued until the two parted ways near the turnoff to the friar's quarters, Carl heading to his room while Van Helsing continued onward, into the deepest sanctuary of the Holy City.

- ( - ( - ( - ( - ( -

Brothers of the Cruciform Sword- this is credited to a S. Speilberg movie, and alas, is not mine.

Also, I credit Jenny with enlightening me as to the existence of both Boxborough and Acton. Any factual info you see, from here on out, relating to these towns, will have come from her. All hail! All hail!


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Dedication: I rarely do these, but this one goes out to 'Scary Kitty', who bequeathed me with the most thorough review of my life. Thank you for acting in place of a beta, I'm endeavoring to fix all my mistakes, and I'm planning an expansion to Laeva Dei that will deal with the major issue – grief for Anna – which you mentioned. Much thanks!_

The following morning dawned brightly, despite the clouds lingering ominously with the distant promise of rain. Carl, exhausted from several days of near-constant work, did not see it. Van Helsing, however, was quietly watching the Holy City awaken, from the one of the two cupolas of St. Peter's Basilica which overlooked the Square.

The sun's first gentle rays illuminated the early workers striding purposefully across the square. He saw a far figure, tall and lanky, directing workers at the entrance to the square. Deacon Ceslovas was organizing his workers from the city for the beginning of the spring season. The sounds of their passage were muted by the dawn, not yet grown to the crescendo of a crowd.

The chill of winter was on the wind, Gabriel mused as he leant forward over the balustrade, gazing out on the city. While the next century was a full decade away and more, change was not contingent on the calendar; and he found himself marveling over the differences he could see. Not those that took place in the past year – _those_ alterations still lay gently upon the Holy City, more of a shift in spirit than in stone. The view of which he now availed himself had changed so much.

There had always been something about this place that compelled the people to gather. He remembered thousands of years past, in the time when the people of Italy were wandering nomadic bands. This place had been a gathering of the wandering tribes, a place of feasting and merriment, trade and exchange – not just items from the coast, but information and language, traditions, cultures and knowledge, the most precious commodity of all.

Much later, with the rise of the Etruscans, known in later times as the Romans, there was building on this spot, yet congregating continued. It was brought to a bloody climax in the time of Nero, when a great _circus maximus_ had been erected in this place. Many – not just Christians, although they were by far the most numerous of the criminals listed – met horrible ends here, gleefully observed by a bloodthirsty crowd.

Closing his eyes with a suppressed shudder, Gabriel turned his face into the bright sunlight, recalling with sorrow the pungent smell of burning flesh as crucified men and women were set alight to illuminate the games in the arena below.

Two hundred years of persecution had been followed by emancipation, under Constantine. Peter's death had been commemorated, then, by the first Basilica to ever be built on the spot. Where crowds had once gathered to adulate the spilling of blood, the descendants of their victims drew together to worship God.

Gabriel slowly opened his eyes, but the open plaza of ages past appeared before his eyes, rather than the modern Square.

That building had been large enough to accommodate the increasing crowds of Christians who flocked to worship. He remembered the structure clearly. It had nothing approaching the present day Basilica's grandeur, but there was something raw and pensive about the silence that reigned in those functional, if not decorative, walls. The suffering that had taken place mere decades before had always permeated those stones. Remembrance was a simple and easy thing there, uncomplicated by ornate austerity. About twelve hundred years later, the building was in such disrepair that the pope – Julius II, if Gabriel recalled correctly – made the decision to replace the dilapidated church with a newer and more elaborate structure.

Construction had begun in 1506, drawing such artists as Raphael, Bramante, Michaelangelo, Bernini, Della Porta, and many more. The _Rinascimento _had been drawing to a close, its end only to be more fully realized some twenty-one years later, when German and Spanish troops sacked Rome itself, beginning the incursion of foreign rule on the proud city. One hundred and twenty years after its inception, the building - the St. Peter's Basilica of the present century - had been completed. But still, repairs and enlargements were nearly always underway, and –

A noise caught his ear, and Gabriel turned to see Gaspar entering the cupola. He turned back to the vista before him, the sun now long since risen and golden light spilling liberally over the Square. "Michael told me you were up here," the new Head commented. "I trust I am not interrupting?"

Gabriel declined to answer. He was wary of relaxing his guard around the other man, and would be unable to do so until he knew the other's true motives.

Sensing that no response would be forthcoming, Gaspar approached the balustrade on Gabriel's right and mirrored the hunter's posture, leaning on the stone railing and gazing on the courtyard below. "I have your next assignment," Gaspar said quietly. He extended a piece of paper to Gabriel and the hunter took it, immediately recognizing the letter that Jinette had handed to him the previous night.

Wryly recognizing that the former head was passing on some of his skill at manipulation to the younger, he quickly ran his eyes over the sheet. The other man began to speak before his perusal had finished. "The missing agent's name is Warren Gray. I want you to go to Boxborough and discover what is truly going on there. I will assign two members of the Order to accompany you. "

"I want Carl on my team," Gabriel asserted calmly, looking up from the paper and meeting the other's gaze. Neither was willing to waste words on an issue of this import.

Gaspar raised a doubtful brow. "Carl does not have the appropriate training for field missions," he pointed out.

"Carl designed, built, and tested nearly every weapon I have used while with the Order," Gabriel countered sharply. "He is more than capable to work as at least a secondary field agent."

Gaspar appeared to consider the thought for a moment, shifting to look out over the Square. More and more men and women appeared as the day made itself known. "I want you to train with him," he said at last. "I will require regular reports of his progress."

"We don't have time for that," Van Helsing objected immediately.

"Then I will have Bharat make an initial assessment of his skills, and his participation in this assignment will be contingent on his ability as of now," Gaspar continued, unruffled by the protest. "If the head of our trainers finds his skills satisfactory, then he will be made part of your team. I reserve my right to choose the third member of your team, regardless of the outcome. Agreed?"

Gabriel nodded slowly, fingering the paper in his hands. He held up the letter, and commented, "I think that having access to all previous correspondence from this agent would be beneficial."

"Of course," Gaspar consented. The two men stared at each other for a moment before Gabriel turned more fully away from the other. Despite the awkward pause that stretched out, this was looking to be the most civil conversation the two men had ever shared.

"Did you know that today is Michael's birthday?" Gabriel asked abruptly, ending the silence.

Gaspar started at the sudden question, and floundered for a moment before gruffly responding, "No, I didn't." With sudden suspicion, he asked, "How did you know?"

Gabriel shrugged. The two men were staring out at the city, a distance of two feet or more separating them from one another. "Carl mentioned it. I thought you should know."

Gaspar raised a brow curiously. "Why is that?"

Gabriel didn't turn. "The boy looks up to you," he said finally. "It would mean a great deal to him if you were to say something." Birthdays among the clergy and members of the Order were never a cause for fuss, and in fact were barely worthy of notice, except among the few young ones in service at the Vatican. On their birthdays, they would be prayed for, and sometimes given small gifts. They were granted a bit of praise and appreciation for that one day, though no extravagant attention was lavished on any one child – it simply wasn't their way.

Gaspar inclined his head in thanks, and after a moment murmured, "Were you aware of the circumstances by which he came to the Order?"

Recognizing the statement for the olive branch it was, Gabriel responded with a noncommittal, "Not the details."

Gaspar let his hands settle on the wide stone railing, gazing out past the borders of the Vatican, into Rome itself. "Michael was born in Ecuador," he began softly. "He had a disability. We cannot know for sure, but Taddeo thinks it might have been polio – he was unable to stand or walk. When he was five, he received a vision of the Holy Virgin, and was cured. He first came to our attention a year ago, at age eight, when he was protected from a wild bull; it was a miracle he was not mauled. The Christian Brothers spoke to him, and he expressed a desire to join our Order."

Gabriel nodded at the mention of the small offshoot of the Knights of the Holy Order who had settled in Ecuador. "All the more reason for you to speak with him," he said quietly. "You know his story," he added needlessly.

He could feel Gaspar looking at him, searching for the hidden meaning, and after a moment Gabriel turned, looking at the other man levelly. Whatever Gaspar thought to find, he seemed satisfied, and nodded once. "I will think on it. Good day." With that, he departed.

The hunter felt the cool morning breeze pick up, noting with chagrin the chill in the weather which he had been steadfastly ignoring up to this point. Much as they might all desire it, true spring was still a good ways off. Conceding to the cold, the hunter left the open cupola, returning to the lower levels of the Basilica in a search for Carl.

After combing the catacombs and wandering the halls for several hours, he made his way to one of the several kitchens scattered within the Pontifical Academy of Sciences on the rumor that Carl had taken a break for lunch there.

The noise level dipped considerably when he walked into the room, but Gabriel paid it no mind. This area was predominantly peopled with the scholars and researchers of the Order, men and women who worked only indirectly with the labors taking place in the catacombs. They did not expect a hunter, let alone _this_ hunter, to appear in their midst.

Carl, absorbed in explaining one of his experiments to a younger scholar, didn't notice that someone was approaching until his audience's eyes widened, and the youth's gaze drifted over his shoulder. Carl turned, and the amiable, somewhat unassuming attitude he displayed dissolved into a scowl as soon as he saw Van Helsing. "I thought you were Gaspar," he huffed, somewhat surprised.

The quirked grin Gabriel threw him surprised some of the people watching. "No," he replied, holding back a laugh with only a little difficulty.

Carl checked his exasperation, reading hidden mirth in the hazel eyes. "What now?" he asked, twisting around on the bench in order to face his friend more comfortably.

Looking at Carl's mostly filled plate, Gabriel raised a brow and seated himself on the edge of the sturdy bench, prompting the youth across from Carl to gulp. "Tell you after you've eaten," he said quietly.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Carl eyed the hunter warily.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Carl. Eat."

Grumbling under his breath, Carl took a bite of the bread in front of him and continued lowly, "You know, the last time you got that look in your eye, we ended being chased by hundreds of vampires before jumping out of a window into a canal!"

The youth across the table, the only person near enough to pick up on the comment, choked on his food and began to cough.

"So, I'd really rather if you told me now, before I get in over my head without knowing what's going on," Carl hissed, being certain this time to keep his voice down.

It was a little late for that, Gabriel thought with some amusement. "You and I," said the hunter patiently, "have an appointment with Bharat."

"The head weapons master? Why?" Carl asked blankly.

"For our next assignment," Gabriel replied vaguely, more than aware of the eager audience.

"Our next . . ." Realization dawned and Carl gaped in surprise, fork dropping unheeded to his plate. Everyone was staring now, at the slight friar and the taller hunter, who was deliberately refusing to cause a stir. "But I'm not a field man! I don't -"

"Haven't we already had this conversation?" Gabriel calmly asked him as he rose, stepping away from the table. Carl, he knew, would be unable to eat after such an announcement – which was the main reason he had delayed in relating the information.

Carl, completely forgetting his food, stood as well. "But – but I – where are we going?" he demanded weakly, following Van Helsing to the door.

"America," Gabriel returned, looking over his shoulder concernedly at the friar.

Carl's mouth fell open and his eyes lit up. "Where?"

"New England," Gabriel replied, his eyes on the many people traversing the hallway. Carl's face dimmed a little, but the smile was still there.

"When do we leave?"

"Whenever we get the third member of our crew," Gabriel returned, and Carl moved up next to him as the people thinned out, making a noise of disgust.

"He'll be a lackey," the auburn-haired man stated with certainty. "He's testing us!"

"Don't be too sure of that," Gabriel warned him, passing the letter to the other.

Carl read it twice through as they walked, Gabriel's hand on his shoulder guiding him round corners and stopping him before he heedlessly walked down a series of stairs. The friar didn't look up once, completely absorbed in the letter. "That's it?" he asked finally.

"That's just the last report," Gabriel responded, guiding them outside. Carl hissed at the cold air, and Van Helsing turned so he was blocking the slighter man from most of the wind. "Gaspar will be giving me the rest, and we'll have to see what we can make from them."

"Do you think Warren Gray is dead?" Carl asked soberly. He rubbed his hands together, tucking them into his robe to stay warm.

The hunter's face was grave. "I don't know," he replied honestly. He looked up as they reached a side entrance to the Basilica.

"Ah. Bharat," Carl changed the subject, and Gabriel almost smiled at the anxiety in the other's voice.

"You'll be fine," Gabriel assured him, propelling the younger man inside with a firm hand on his back.

"Are you sure - "

"Carl."

"But-"

"Carl!" Rolling his eyes, Gabriel followed the obviously nervous young man into the smaller side catacomb that Bharat had appropriated for training space upon his appointment to weapons master. Gabriel had spent a good deal of time here during his recovery several years ago, and still came back on occasion; however, he found that the constant assignments he was given did more to hone his battle-sense than any controlled exercise, no matter how well executed.

"Van Helsing," Bharat greeted the hunter warmly, the clear camaraderie between the two startling the friar and bringing a full grin to Gabriel's face. The two gripped each other's wrists, and Gabriel looked the other man over.

Shorter and broader than himself, Bharat was in his physical prime. Dark skin proclaimed his proud heritage as a child of Nigeria, although his kin were originally from deeper within the African continent. His stature was imposing, with thick muscles from his work dominating the impression most received from him. He didn't give a whit about what others thought about him, which was a testament to his character – he simply worked everyone under his tutelage until he was satisfied that they would not only survive, but succeed. His respect was hard-won and not easily lost. Gabriel liked him, for he had a refreshingly down-to-earth attitude that brooked no nonsense with much of the political and situational maneuvering which took place elsewhere in the Order.

Realizing that he was also on the receiving end of a thoughtful assessment, Gabriel smiled and moved aside. "Bharat, this is Carl."

The friar swallowed and stepped forward. "Pleased to meet you," he said evenly.

Bharat raised a brow, looking the short, slender man over. Carl flushed but stood straight and tall, meeting the other's gaze. Bharat glanced at Gabriel, who was smiling knowingly. "You've been informed of why we're here?"

Bharat nodded somewhat brusquely, his shaved head gleaming in the light. "Come with me, boy, and we'll see what we will see."

Carl gave Gabriel a pleading look of disbelief. Bharat led them to a cleared space that was obviously a target range, and several weapons were already set out and waiting, all of which Gabriel recognized. Carl apparently recognized them as well, and he went to stand in front of them at a gesture from the weapons-master with a somewhat puzzled look.

At Bharat's instruction, the unimposing young man quickly disassembled and reassembled several of the complex weapons, cleaning them carefully with clever fingers. Only two of the weapons were projects developed by the Order in which Carl had not had a hand – primarily because they were much before his time. Given a minute, however, the young friar was able to work out the rudiments of their use and care, and Gabriel saw swiftly concealed surprise on Bharat's face. He smothered a smile, keeping his features bland.

However, it was when Carl began to demonstrate his accuracy that other attention in the room drifted toward the target range. With the clinical interest of a technician, as opposed to the passionate involvement of a hunter, Carl methodically shot each of the weapons, choosing a different target each time and compensating for quirks in the weaponry – it took him only two shots to correct for a crossbow that tended to hit left of the crosshair sighting, a weapon Bharat kept faulty on purpose to test the mettle of his students.

There was a stunned silence in the room when Carl put down the last weapon, checking it carefully. He turned and jumped in fright to see several people staring at him. Bharat frowned at the gawkers, who quickly found somewhere else to direct their concentration.

"That was impressive." Bharat's deep voice rang out after a moment in which he stared hard at the friar. Gabriel heard the almost inaudible murmur that followed, knowing the weapons master was speaking only to himself. "He'll do well." Carl's face had slowly turned a beet red, and he mumbled a thank-you to his feet. "Do you think you could do that if there was a person, instead of a target, at the other end?"

Carl's head snapped up at the harsh question, blood draining out of his face so quickly that Gabriel stepped forward, afraid he would faint.

"He doesn't have to. That's what I do," Gabriel asserted softly, eyes worriedly seeking out his friend. The friar nodded slightly to the hunter, a silent signal reassuring him that all was well. "We're just here to see if he knows enough for you to give Gaspar the assurance that he's prepared for this mission."

"I don't like sending them out squeamish," Bharat admitted frankly.

"But?" Gabriel pressed.

Bharat eyed him, then threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. Gabriel grinned.

"He knows the weapons well, and he has skill with them many would be envious of. I'd be right in thinking you built some of them, eh?" he commented without a pause. "Other than that, I'll assume he has little or no hand-to-hand combat skills. He can learn those from you later," Bharat continued.

Gabriel threw Carl a somewhat wicked grin, and the friar's eyes widened. "The hell be damned I will!" Carl finally found his voice.

Bharat grinned, white teeth flashing in a dark face. "He'll do very well."

(((((( Wow. Sorry for the delay. My sense of perfectionism kept me from posting until I convinced myself that I liked this chapter – as a result, it's somewhat longer than usual. The contest winners are: Daemon Fairy Aerika, who got that #2 is Jeanne D'Arc, the Maid of Orleans. Winner 2 is trecebo who knew #2 and also that #1 was Indiana Jones. Alice is the third winner, who specified that it was Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Way to go! I'm sort of in shock – 99 percent of reviewers knew at least one of the answers, and many more than I expected knew that it was Last Crusade. Guess I'll have to work on my subtlety . . . hehehe! I'll be waiting the questions of the winners with bated breath!))))))


	4. Chapter 4

"_Feliz cumpleaños a ti!_

_Feliz cumpleaños a ti!_

_Feliz cumpleaños a Miguel!_

_Feliz cumpleaños a ti!"_

Michael grinned bashfully, looking out from under his lashes at the few gathered round. "_Muchas gracias_," he told them shyly.

There was a wide assortment of people in attendance, Carl noted. They had all gathered for the noon meal in one of the larger kitchens to wish the young boy a happy birthday. Taddeo and Jinette were seated not far from where Michael was smiling happily. One of the head cooks had even baked a batch of cookies for the occasion. This event was more elaborate than any birthday celebration in the recent past, though it only consisted of a large gathering and cookies. All were painfully aware of how close the youth had come to missing his eleventh birthday, and gave the day special notice.

Michael grinned, finished speaking with Gaspar, and caught sight of something – someone – slipping out the door. Curious, he made his way to the doorway and peeked out, seeing the dark-clad man turning a corner and disappearing from sight.

The boy darted forward, calling out, "Wait!"

He skidded around the corner and nearly collided with the tall figure. Weathered hands caught the boy's shoulders, steadying him. Michael looked up into the expressionless face of the Vatican's most renowned – and most feared – hunter.

He took a deep breath, but the other spoke before he had a chance to fully recover himself from his headlong dash down the corridor.

"_Feliz cumpleaños, Miguel._" There was a slight pause while the youth found himself the subject of the hunter's gaze. "They will be missing you in the kitchen, Michael," the dark man said. His voice was surprisingly gentle for such an intimidating personage, the words warm. Part of Michael knew that he should be afraid, for after all, this hunter was the most wanted man in Europe and dangerous beyond comprehension.

"_Gracias, señor_," was what he said instead.

The dark head tilted, a brow raising in surprise. "What for, youngling? It is I who should be thanking you, for your help on my last assignment."

"For your kind wishes on my birthday," Michael said. He took a deep breath. "And for -"

"Ah! There you are!"

The youth jumped, twisting in surprise, but the hunter merely lifted his gaze. Gaspar moved down the hall toward them, the smile on his face fading as he saw who the boy was speaking to.

"Van Helsing," he nodded, making an attempt to be civil if only for Michael.

"Gaspar." The hunter's voice was filled with grim humor.

"Come, Michael," Gaspar forced a smile for his young charge. "The others will be missing you."

"But -"

The youth looked back at Van Helsing, who murmured, "Go, youngling."

Gaspar frowned at the hunter over Michael's head, but Gabriel stood his ground as Michael glanced back toward the kitchen. "Are you coming as well?" he asked Gaspar somewhat uncertainly.

Gaspar never took his eyes from the hunter. "No, child," he quietly responded. "I need to speak with Van Helsing."

Michael nodded and turned the corner, but before he could go very far he was overcome by curiosity. Creeping into the shadow of a low-hanging tapestry, Michael listened with all his might to the low conversation taking place in the adjoining hallway.

"What did you say to the boy?" A deep growl, menacing in the ominous threat contained therein. Michael shivered at Gaspar's anger.

"I wished him well on his birthday. I thanked him for aiding us not long ago. Nothing more." There was a strange tone to the hunter's words, at once both a balm and unspoken rebuke.

Someone touched Michael's shoulder gently, and he jerked in shock, whirling with wide eyes to see who had caught him eavesdropping on his elders. Carl smiled at him, and seemed about to say something when a loud voice around the corner interrupted. The friar's face drew into a frown, but the words froze him in place. He held a finger to his lips, and Michael met his eyes with a nod.

"I want your team to leave tomorrow, at your earliest convenience."

Carl's grey eyes narrowed, flicking to the corner. When his gaze returned to Michael however, he smiled wryly. The two had missed something when Carl first came upon the boy, but the subject of their discussion was now clear.

"And who will be accompanying me?" Gabriel asked tersely, the question capturing their attention and returning their focus to the conversation taking place just out of sight.

"Carl." The friar next to Michael seemed to relax slightly, but the next statement issued from Gaspar's mouth dispelled whatever calm he might have attained. "And Lamar as well."

Carl muttered something under his breath that might have been obscene, but Michael was too concentrated on the hunter's reply to pay him much mind.

When it came, however, it was not what he had expected. "Very well."

Apparently the friar had also expected a more strident resistance. Carl frowned, and looked as if he was going to say something, but Michael tugged at his sleeve and the auburn-haired man shut his mouth with a snap.

"Are you returning to the party?" Gabriel's voice was slightly louder than the norm.

The two eavesdroppers froze.

The short pause was long enough for visions of discovery and shame to whirl through Michael's brain, long enough for Carl to come up with a suitable excuse for when the head of the Order rounded the corner and tripped over the two people crouched there.

"No," Gaspar responded, the suspicious look he must surely have leveled on the hunter plain in his voice. "I have business to attend to. See that you do not go near the boy in the future."

"I am quite aware that his road lies along a different path than mine," Gabriel retorted.

The noise of footsteps fading into the distance was cause enough for the boy and the friar to sag in relief.

"You can come out now," came the hunter's amused voice.

Michael gasped and jumped, while Carl let out a startled, "Ah!"

The hunter turned the corner and grinned at the friar, who scowled at him, panting in an attempt to regain his breath. "How long have you been hiding there?"

"I never left, _señor_," Michael confessed. Deception did not sit well with the lad, as was clear from his countenance.

"Curiosity is never something to be embarrassed of, Michael," the hunter responded seriously. "You must only be careful when and how you give in to it. You may hear something you will not like. Sometimes, information is held back from us for our own protection, or that of others."

"I understand," Michael whispered miserably.

The hunter suddenly smiled. "It's healthy to be curious. There's no need for your shame," he said comfortingly.

Carl huffed, glaring at his friend. "And when were you going to tell me that Lamar was joining us on this little . . . expedition?"

"When we were boarding the boat for Boston tomorrow morning," the hunter replied in all gravity. A tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth told Michael that he was teasing the friar, and the boy lifted both hands to hide his grin.

Casting a judicious eye on the hunter, Carl muttered, "No doubt."

Michael and Gabriel watched his irritating pacing in amusement, until finally Carl turned to them and snapped, "I don't see what's so entertaining!" His fury was quite real, and all the more potent in that it was based from circumstances out of his control.

Gabriel sobered immediately, pushing off the tapestry against which he was leaning, to approach his friend.

"I don't see how you can just . . . go along with this!" Carl snapped, grey eyes blazing. "It's quite clear that Gaspar is keeping watch over your every move! Why don't you go to Jinette? Fight this, dammit!"

"What good could that possibly do?"

Gabriel's calm, reasonable tone only incensed the friar further. Carl could only see the perceived passivity Gabriel displayed. "It would get Gaspar off your back, and out of our affairs!"

"For how long?" the hunter cut in swiftly. "For Jinette's lifespan? And what would you do after, Carl, branded as political enemy to the head of the Order?"

"_Me?_ What about -"

"He can do nothing to me. He is only human, after all." Gabriel sounded almost sad. "No, Carl, if I were to fight this it would cause a rift within the Order, one which would divide us in the face of the evil we fight. You know what I am. I cannot take control of the Order, even to save it from itself. I am _forbidden_. Besides, this is not an issue of power. It is clear that he is simply trying to see how far his control extends, to what degree he can safely act in his new role."

"Than what _is_ the heart of this, then?" Carl demanded. Michael could see his confusion, could see that it was bleeding into despair.

"Respect." The answer was quietly voiced, and even more quietly received. "Gaspar is now the head of the Order. In that capacity, despite my personal feelings, he deserves the respect of the station he commands; the responsibility he bears _demands_ such from me.

"Gaspar is not an evil man, Carl. He may be misguided; truth be told, I do not know him anywhere near well enough to be a judge on his character, nor has he been in position long enough for me to be justified in taking such liberties. The fact remains that he is new to his position, and he does not trust me. I have given him little cause to do so, if truth be told. He is concerned, and yet he is forced into leaving this disturbing situation in my hands, which he is understandably uncomfortable with. He knows that your sympathies lie with me, and all he can do to hope that he may have some influence on the situation is send someone with us whom he _knows_ to be loyal and who shares his views. He is rather powerless, in reality.

"But when all these factors are distilled into truth, the only truth of any consequence is that he bears a heavy burden for one so young. Why should I add to it, if I could lighten it? After all, Lamar's presence is not too great of a trial."

The hunter's words of wisdom were met with silent contemplation. Carl sighed, finally, not looking at his friend as he said, "Other men's crosses are not my crosses."

Gabriel snorted, and said something pointedly vulgar.

Carl started, and Michael's eyes widened, preceding a small grin.

"If ever I meet the fool who uttered that last, I'll -" noting his audience, the hunter paused. "Never mind," he finished curtly. "To a point, you are right. But think on this – the story of the Good Samaritan was included in the Bible for a reason."

Carl ran a hand through his hair, glancing down at Michael as he tilted his head meaningfully toward the hunter and murmured, "I do not know if I will ever accrue that much forbearance. But I will try."

"Just try." Gabriel smiled at them, and something _different_ from anything Michael had ever seen gleamed in his eyes. His breath caught – no, he had seen something like this before, once, when the Lady had appeared to him – and as soon as the thought manifested, he glanced at the hunter again.

But whatever otherworldliness that had shone in the hunter was gone.

"So we leave tomorrow?" asked Carl, giving Gabriel a considering glance and drawing Michael's attention away from what he had just seen.

"Yes." A wary pause gave birth to Gabriel's next statement. "What is it?"

"You know, I don't believe I've ever heard you say so much at one time before?"

"_Carl!_"

The friar snickered, and Michael giggled. Gabriel's affronted look melted into a half-smile.

"You are truly departing tomorrow, _señores_?" Michael asked solemnly. The two men nodded, somewhat hesitantly, and the boy smiled. "I will pray for you."

(-(-(-(-(-(

June has arrived, and as promised, the update. I will move from character development to action soon, I promise!


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Gabriel woke long before sunrise. In the complete darkness of his room, the inner sanctum of the Vatican, he rose, bathed, and dressed. The few things he would need for this journey – clothes and a wide variety of weapons – were safely packed in a deceptively small, inconspicuous bag.

Lighting a candle, he gathered his things and left the room, not bothering to secure it. Few people knew of this refuge within the Vatican, but should the need arise, Gabriel would rather that it was available to them, instead of locked and barred.

Making his way through the corridors, he passed through roundabout halls and made turns that brought him, more or less directly, to the friars' quarters. Quietly, knowing that most of the friars would still be abed for at least two more hours, he knocked on the door.

As expected, there was no answer, and the hunter smiled, turned the knob, and opened the door.

"Wake up, Carl. Carl, wake up!"

"M'awake," the inventor muttered, turning his face into the pillow to escape the candle-light brightening the room.

"No, you're not." Gabriel held back a smile.

"You're right. I lied. Go away, Van Helsing. It can't be tomorrow yet."

"Oh, it's been tomorrow for the past three hours."

A tortured groan, somewhat muffled by feathers and cloth, greeted this statement. Carl pulled the blanket up over his head, blocking out the light.

Gabriel looked around the small room, and saw the neatly packed bag sitting near the door. After moving it out into the hallway, he returned to stand over the bed, looking down at the lump that had, yesterday, been a reasonable man. A snarl greeted his tug on the covers. "Go bother someone else," Carl whined piteously.

Van Helsing grinned outright. "Where would the fun be in that?"

Grumbling, Carl conceded defeat and opened his eyes. Tottering out of bed and ushering Gabriel out of the room, the friar washed and dressed. Surprised at how much more human he felt, he joined the hunter in the hall and the two made their way to Lamar's quarters, in a separate hallway. The middle-eastern man was already awake, waiting outside his door with his things and prepared to depart.

The three men moved to the kitchen and ate breakfast in uneasy silence, generously served by one of the night-cooks who kept especially extreme hours for just such situations. Gabriel covertly studied Lamar as they ate hot porridge and bread, washed down with chilled juice and water.

Lamar was of a height with Carl despite being just over thirty. He was slender in stature, with dark eyes and hair, his skin lightly browned from both heritage and sun. He had come from Jerusalem nearly ten years ago, and worked in several fields. Like many of the Order, he had a wide range of skills, more so than most because he was not especially proficient in any area.

When Gabriel had informed Jinette the night before, the older man had cautioned him not to overlook Lamar's usefulness. The cardinal had told him that he believed Lamar was knowledgeable and skilled in so many different areas because the man was searching for something. An internal struggle distracted him from dedicating himself to any one area. Looking at the Jerusalemite now, Gabriel agreed, and saw something deeper. Whatever it was that Lamar struggled with, he had been wrestling with for some time. It was a personal quest which held him back, not intelligence or lack of competence.

Tucking his thoughts away, Gabriel pushed aside his empty dish and quietly thanked the cook. Waiting patiently for the others to finish, he remained silent, preferring to let the morning solitude color the pre-dawn hush.

Carl, however, felt no such need. "What's the name of this ship, anyway?" he asked.

Gabriel sat back, shifting uncomfortably. The bench he sat on was pushed against the wall, and the entire space was cramped. Regardless, it had direct lines of sight to both doors leading into the kitchen, which was why he had chosen it. "The _Oaklands, _leaving from the Port of Civitavecchia. She's due to depart at ten."

"How far will she take us?" Lamar had a slight accent, only truly notable in the preciseness of his speech.

"It's a twelve-day journey to Liverpool. There, we're due to catch the _SS Philadelphia_, which will bring us to Boston in six days. From there, it's a two-day walk to Boxborough. If the weather holds, we should be there no later than the fifth of March."

"How long will it take us to get to Civitavecchia from here?" Carl asked around a yawn.

"It's seventy kilometers from here. Are you ready to go?" Gabriel eased his way out from behind the table, quietly grateful to be able to stretch his legs. Lamar pushed up from the bench, and Carl joined the two after gratefully receiving a pack of food the cook had been preparing for them as they ate.

The three men proceeded out of the Vatican, making their way towards the stables located just outside the west wall of the Holy City. They walked in silence, Gabriel and Lamar out of indifference to such, and Carl from latent exhaustion. Once they reached the stables, a groom accompanied them on the long journey to Civitavecchia, simply so the horses could be returned to the stables by the day's end.

The journey took most of the six hours Gabriel had allotted for it, leaving them with just enough time to board the _HM Bark Oaklands_ before she set to sea. Besides the three, inconspicuous members of the Order, _Oaklands _carried a crew of seventy-three and two- hundred twenty-four passengers. The three-masted steel barque was an impressive sight, with members of the crew scurrying through the rigging, readying the ship to get underway.

Gabriel, Carl and Lamar barely had time to stow their belongings below decks before the vessel's motion indicated that the engines had started, and the _HM Bark Oaklands_ was underway.

On the fifth day of the journey, Carl decided that he'd had quite enough of nautical life to last him for several years. He was unable to understand the pleasure Gabriel took in the open sea, and found himself unwittingly drawn more and more into conversation with Lamar. Despite the disparity in their ages, the two men were able to find common ground, Lamar through his experience in many fields and Carl through his innate curiosity. They amiably debated many topics from the efficiency of electricity to the usefulness of blinders on horses, much to the amusement of both nearby passengers and crew. By the ninth day of the journey, Gabriel would move closer instead of heading in the opposite direction when he saw the telltale signs of an impending argument. The hunter remained a silent listener, however, until he felt the need to bring the argument to a close. Then, he would unknowingly startle Lamar with his practical compromises between the two very different points of view being put forth by each of the scientists.

When they made port in Liverpool early on the morning of February twenty-fifth, the three men were comfortable in each others' presence, their interaction markedly different from the stilted group which had departed the Vatican.

"The _Philadelphia_ is a steam ship," Lamar explained as they disembarked from the _Oaklands_. "She was built in Glasgow, last year, and is the first twin-screw steamship ever built."

"Very fast," Gabriel murmured, following the Jerusalemite down the gang-plank.

"Her first voyage, Liverpool to New York City, was under a week!" Carl enthused, at the head of the line. His eyes gleamed at the prospect of getting a better understanding of the newest technology available, even if it was nautical.

Once directed to the proper dock, it took the three men little time to find the _Philadelphia_, which was an impressive sight. The ship sported three funnels in addition to three masts, which were rigged for sail. "Would you look at that!" Carl gaped at the magnificent vessel, oblivious to Lamar's open amusement at his astonishment. The smaller man's white teeth flashed, as he amiably steered Carl around stacks of crates waiting to be loaded.

Gabriel followed behind, digging into his pocket and producing their tickets, marking them among the thousand third-class passengers of the _Philadelphia_, which also boasted five-hundred and forty first-class seatings, and two hundred in second-class. They were some of the last people to arrive onboard. As the ship was preparing to depart at five in the evening, most passengers had arrived after the noon meal.

Lamar shivered as they ascended to the top decks. Their journey northward had brought them further from the warmer Mediterranean climes to which he was accustomed. It became more bearable as they made their way belowdecks to the bowels of the ship, reserved for those traveling with the most limited budget.

"You'd think, that with everything all told, they'd give us something better than _steerage_," Carl moaned, as they managed to locate three open berths relatively near to one another. They had moved to the fore of the ship, near the crew's quarters, as that area was designated for single men. While there were rooms available to those who traveled steerage, those were usually reserved for families or the elderly. The remaining space was portioned out by gender and marital status. Single women were aft, separated from the single men by the married couples. Given the probable length of the journey, Gabriel hadn't objected to the sleeping arrangements.

"The idea is to avoid attracting attention," he gently jibed. The chances of that were significantly reduced simply from the oddity of their group. Carl could not successfully pretend to be anything other than what he was. His first attempt at doing so had failed miserably; the young man was an awful liar. While Gabriel and Lamar could pass as laborers, the latter's ethnicity would draw notice simply because of the majority in their port of call and amongst the passengers. "The ship's manifest is more precise about the identity of the first and second-class passengers than those in steerage."

Lamar was no happier about the arrangements than Carl, but he reluctantly conceded to the hunter's logic.

"At least we'll be able to spend most of the time above decks, then." Carl was determined to find some good in the situation.

"Perhaps not," Lamar interjected, remembering the icy chill in the air. This far north, winter would not yield its grip on the land for another two months at least.

After stowing their belongings, the three men joined most of their fellow passengers, braving the cold to stand out on deck and watch as tugboats coaxed the _Philadelphia _into the open sea. The arduous process took nearly half an hour, and by the time she reached a speed of fifteen knots, full dark had fallen and the ship was illuminated fore to aft.

Returning belowdecks, they found that messes were being designated by sleeping arrangements. Those in steerage didn't eat in the upper class dining halls – instead, their food would be cooked in the central galley, with each messes' stores kept and cooked separately. Lamar and Gabriel were in the same mess, while Carl was assigned to a different one.

The two members of the Order found the first night on board the _Philadelphia_ much different to their time on _Oaklands_. She was larger, and had more passengers, contributing to a more cramped feeling belowdecks. The noise of several hundred other people attempting to sleep, all in a limited space, was somewhat perturbing to the friar. He noticed with grumpy ill-humor that the hunter, however, was sleeping quietly two bunks away.

Lamar was bunked not far from where an older man was horribly seasick, and the night passed uncomfortably for the thirty- year old. He greeted the morning and the fresh air on deck with an enthusiasm matched only by Carl, despite the rampant chill. Gabriel was also relieved to leave behind the hot, rancid air of steerage.

A crisp, cold wind blew his hair back from his forehead, and the hunter took a great breath, relishing the sea-salt he tasted on the air. The sun shone brightly, the few clouds moving swiftly across the expanse of sky. "Six days," a gloomy voice caught his attention. "Six more nights . . . of _that_."

"Thank Allah that steam has shortened the journey," Lamar grimly replied. "Twenty years ago, this trip would take over two weeks."

Carl looked green at the thought, and the hunter quirked a smile, patting his friend on the back as he approached them.

"How was breakfast?" he asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

"I became reacquainted with the wonders of hardtack," Carl snapped, leaning against the rail and peering out over the waves. He had clearly had his fill of sea travel.

"Reacquainted?" Gabriel asked. The _Oaklands_ had not been filled to capacity, and so had taken on more fresh foods to make the journey easier. And while they had been in steerage on that portion of their journey as well, they had had more room. The scale of the _Philadelphia_, however, and the amount of people crammed into steerage, was unwholesomely overwhelming.

Carl nodded in answer. "I traveled by ship to the Vatican when I was a child."

"From?" Lamar prodded, his interest roused. The small man kept his eyes on the spray shooting up from where the prow was carving a path through the deeps. White foam boiled out from the ship's dark sides, leaving a wide wake trailing behind.

"America," Carl responded, a note of wistful longing in his voice.

Gabriel was surprised. Carl had been in the Vatican for longer than he, and the hunter had simply assumed that Carl was from a relatively nearby area. "So you're going home for the first time in years," he mused, curling his fingers into fists to keep them warm. He had left his trenchcoat below, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself.

"Not quite," Carl answered dryly. "My family lives in New Jersey."

None of the men said anything for several moments, shedding the feeling of confinement that lingered from spending the night below. Lamar was the first to begin shivering, the one out of the three of them who was most unused to cold weather. "Now where do we go?" he managed, around chattering teeth. Most of the better parts of the ship were reserved for the upper-class passengers. Most of the passengers departing for America were immigrants, many English. The caste system was expected to remain firmly in place within the ship and throughout the voyage, and so there were few places the group would be able to take refuge from both the cold and the sleeping quarters that would not bring forth protests from other passengers.

Gabriel shrugged. "Let's go find out," he suggested.

(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-

Please forgive my obvious lack of nautical knowledge. I will confess – _Moby Dick_ is the only assigned school reading book I ever failed to finish, and after getting to 131 out of 135 chapters, it is the only one I ever threw up a staircase. Repeatedly.

Disclaimer: The _Oaklands_, a 3-masted steel barque, did exist. Built in 1876, in 1877 she traveled with 338 passengers (increased to 346 through the journey) from Plymouth to Adelaide. I could find out nothing else about her, besides a picture, and so hijacked her and turned her into a HMS, since I could not find to prefix descriptor for her. I used the _HMS Bark Endeavor_ as a model for nautical terms (Wikipedia is my savior), but had to play with the number of passengers. _Endeavor_ was smaller, and had only 94, so I averaged.

The _Philadelphia _is a real ship. The info I gave about her is all true, with the exception of the fact that her maiden voyage was to NYC in April of 1889. For being the first twin-screwed steamship (which I assume means 2 underwater propellers), nobody was apparently interested in catching her on canvas, so I couldn't find a picture. But her description hinted at a varied life, wherein she had several names, before being scrapped in 1923. For any links, leave me an email and I'll send them to you.


	6. Chapter 6

Carl had never been happier to step off a ship in his life. Lamar was of a like mind, judging from his expression alone. Gabriel smirked irrepressibly at the two of them, hefting his bag once more.

"Oh, Thank God," Carl murmured at feeling solid land, as opposed to a swaying deck, beneath his feet. "We're _walking_ to Boxborough?"

"Is that a problem?" Lamar asked warily. He moved so that Carl was now sandwiched between himself and Van Helsing.

"Not in the slightest," Carl replied happily.

Gabriel laughed outright. "What are you going to do about the journey home?" he teased lightly, gazing leisurely around the lightly crowded dockside. He caught sight of a young boy and a dog walking in their direction, and familiarity hummed through his soul. A smile began to form.

"I'll jump off that ship when I get to it," Carl tartly retorted, surprising another laugh out of the hunter.

"I cabled Boxborough when from Rome before we left," Lamar muttered, also beginning to scan the docks. "The cable's been down, there, for quite a while. The best I could do was send a cable to Acton, requesting that a message be forwarded. With any luck, they sent us a guide."

The boy was closer now, and it was clear to see that he was a towheaded youth somewhere between thirteen and fourteen, with something of a seafaring air about him. He was a little pale, despite his confidence, and the black Labrador next to him pressed encouragingly against his side.

"If not - " Carl began worriedly, also starting to peer around with interest.

"If not, it's somewhere west of here, and this is Boston. Someone has to know how to get there," Gabriel pointed out reasonably.

"Hello there," the boy called out cheerily, waving as he approached.

"Um, hello," said Carl.

"Good morning," Lamar replied precisely.

Gabriel was silent, gently dipping into a memory as he quickly looked the boy over. Yes, it was him.

"Just in off the _Philadelphia_?" he asked, steady blue eyes twinkling at them. "My name's Ben, and this is Ned." The dog barked enthusiastically, and the boy grinned. "If you're the ones I'm looking for, then I'm here to see you to Boxborough."

"How did you know it was us?" Lamar asked, somewhat suspiciously.

The boy seemed a little embarrassed. "You gave your names in the cable you sent ahead," he explained, shoving a hand in one pocket. The other rested on the dog's head, scratching just behind the ears. The dog plopped down on the boy's foot, his tongue lolling happily. "The mayor described you to me. And beggin' your pardon, but folks like you don't come through every day, what with being monks and all," he nodded at Carl.

"I'm still just a friar," Carl protested Lamar's chuckle at his expense.

Ben grinned, flicking his hair out of his eyes. Ned gained his feet and barked once. Gabriel smiled, and saw the boy's eyes, as well as those of the dog, turn to him in frank appraisal. The silence between the two youngsters was thick with meaning decipherable only to the boy and his dog.

"Well then, if you've got all your things, we'll be setting out," Ben said cheerfully, after looking them all over. "Follow me, mates!"

Gabriel trailed at the end of the party, making sure the group stayed together and keeping an eye on his fellow travelers. Ben and Ned were a wonderfully matched pair, who seemed to have been friends their whole lives. The boy was just smaller than Carl and Lamar, wrapped in a thick wool coat, an extra pair of trousers and boots to accommodate the cold weather. Ben was surprisingly confident for a boy his age, unless one knew the truth as Gabriel did.

"No, my name's Neb backwards, short for Nebuchadnezzar," he replied amiably to Lamar's question. "Ned's name is Den backwards, short for Denmark. Bit of an odd name for a dog, eh?" Despite living in America, the boy's voice had a lively English accent.

"Nebuchadnezzar?" Carl asked, his interest peaked. "Nebuchadnezzar II was the son of Nabopolassar, most powerful of all the Chaldaean kings. He laid Ninevah to ruins, destroyed Judah, and brought Babylon to glory, rebuilding the city and delivering it from dependence on Assyria."

Ben's mouth dropped open, and he paused to look back at the friar. The boy exchanged an incredulous glance with Ned. The dog whined, and Ben said, "I didn't know all that. I was curious, and a few years ago I read about the dream interpreted by Daniel in the Bible."

Lamar nodded. "I have studied the Bible myself. Nebuchadnezzar dreamt of a man made of metal, with a head of gold, arms and chest of silver, whose waist and thighs were composed of bronze, with legs of iron and clay feet. Daniel interpreted this dream to show Nebuchadnezzar the nature of the kingdoms which would rise after his, the kingdom of gold."

"Yes, well a more modern interpretation shows then that the Babylonian empire equates to the chest and arms of silver. The Greeks were the bronze – what was it -"

"Waist and thighs," Ben supplied, grinning at Ned. The Labrador gave him a doggy smile in return, dropping back to walk between Carl and Lamar.

Carl smiled. "Thank you. And the Romans were the legs of iron. Apparently we are now in the stage of feet of clay."

Ben giggled.

"Such a scientific outlook," Lamar mused provocatively.

Gabriel recognized the challenging tone in his voice and groaned laughingly. "No, please, we have a full day's walk ahead. I'd rather not spend it listening to the two of you embark on one of mankind's greatest arguments."

"How would _you_ care to view the situation?" Carl asked his companion with exaggerated politeness, utterly ignoring the hunter. And so the debate began. Gabriel threw his free hand in the air, rolling his eyes. He caught Ben's gaze as the boy glanced back at the two, and winked. Ben grinned, and looked at Ned. Gabriel stifled a laugh at the sight. The dog was steadfastly walking between Carl and Lamar, his attention focused on each speaker in turn. But as the two grew more animated, the dog grew more agitated. Finally, with a little whimper of disgust, Ned bounded out from the midst of the discussion to walk next to his master.

Ben and Ned seemed content with each others' presence, leading the members of the Order around and through the outskirts of Boston. Gabriel stayed at the rear of the group, keeping a sharp watch on each member in the party. Several times he saved Carl from tripping, as the friar's attention was intently focused on the discussion.

The group traveled at a steady pace, Ben proving to be a sure leader as they continued moving westward and slightly north. Three hours after leaving Boston, at roughly one o'clock, they stopped to rest for a short time. The pause in physical movement also brought a pause in the running debate as well, to Gabriel's quiet relief. Surprisingly, Ben produced enough food for the men as well as himself. "Mathilde sent it with me," he explained as he doled out sandwiches.

"Mathilde?" Carl asked, unwrapping the thin cloth to reveal home-baked bread and fresh chicken, only a little squashed from having been secreted inside inner coat pockets.

Ben shrugged, sitting on a log free from snow. They were following a rough path, which wound through the woods. According to their guide, the entire trail looked mostly like this, except for where they passed through Acton. That would be some time the following day, shortly before they reached Boxborough. "Widow Austin," he elaborated quietly. "She and Mr. Austin took me in a few years ago, and I've helped her with her daughter Tanya, and with work around her home, since . . . ." The boy shook his head, changing the subject. "She sent us with so much food, we nearly sank into the snow, didn't we, Ned?"

The dog nodded, and Carl and Lamar stared. Gabriel hid a smile, biting into his sandwich. "Did -"

"Oh, it's just his collar," Ben brushed off Lamar's comment nonchalantly. "It sometimes bothers him when it gets cold out, rubbing. Isn't that right, boy?" Gabriel laughed quietly at the look on the others' faces when Ned nodded again. The dog turned dark, moist eyes on the hunter at the sound and trotted over. Gabriel crouched down, and held out a hand, letting the dog touch him before he presumed to pet the animal. Ned nudged his fingers, and Gabriel smiled, moving to stroke the black animal, scratching gently.

"This is a fine dog, Ben," Gabriel said quietly, smiling. "Though I don't think you, or he, need me to tell you that." Ned licked his fingers, and Gabriel tore off a bit of his sandwich. Ned happily gobbled up the treat, and Ben grinned. "How far are we from Boxborough?" Gabriel continued, deftly changing the subject.

"Well, it's not too far. If it were summer, I'd say we could be there tonight, but I don't want to chance loosing the path in the dark. Ned'n'I've camped out here in the winter before. It's a bit cold, but better than getting lost. We'll probably be there before this time tomorrow."

Gabriel nodded, agreeing with the boy's assessment. "Do you have any particular camp site in mind?"

Ben grinned. "I know just the place."

As they finished their food, Ben continued to describe the site, which was apparently less than three hours away. "We need time to collect wood, and get a fire going before full dark," he explained.

Setting off once more, silence reigned for only a few seconds before it died an all-too-premature death, in Gabriel's eyes. The debate began at full speed once more, the verbal combatants having used the short break to augment their stores of point-counterpoint arguments. Ned dropped back to wander next to the hunter for a short time, curiously sniffing him before trotting contentedly alongside. A particularly vehement exclamation caused the man to sigh. Hazel eyes closed for a moment, begging patience, and the dog's brown, moist gaze turned to Gabriel. "Are you as tired of this as I am?" he asked Ned, tilting his head toward the civilized argument taking place in front of him. "I don't think even pushing them into the snow will help," Van Helsing finished after a moment's pause. The dog looked at him, and he winked. With a short bark, Ned bounded between the two scholars, who paused in their deliberations for a moment to stare after the animal, and then continued as if the interruption had never taken place.

Taking his place at the boy's side, Gabriel pretended not to notice the mock-affronted look Ben shot Ned, which swiftly changed to a more contemplative stare. He also ignored the boy's speculative glance as it rested momentarily on him.

The merits of science versus theology were battered back and forth until Gabriel, Ben, and even Ned would have undoubtedly been able to argue for either side. The debate itself was diverting through the somewhat tedious journey, though Gabriel only half-listened, aware at all times of the forest around them. When they finally reached the campsite, the good-natured bickering was set aside until more important matters were settled.

While Ben directed the others around the site, Gabriel walked a quick perimeter, noting a nearby creek that would provide fresh water, and the many pine trees overhanging the small clearing provided thick shelter from the elements. He returned to find Lamar clearing out a fire pit with Ben's help, and Carl unrolling bedrolls beneath a lean-to that looked as if it had been standing since Columbus had first arrived on these shores. Ned was tugging at Ben's blanket, straightening it out. "Ben, do you know if any farmers have herds nearby?" Gabriel asked, though he could pretty well guess the answer.

"I don't think so," the boy responded. "Why?"

"Less chance of the creek water being fouled if not," the hunter's eyes took in the activity of the clearing, and he dropped his pack for the first time in hours. Leaving the satchel at the base of a large pine, the hunter rolled his shoulders, easing out the ache. "Are there any stockpiles of firewood for the pit?" he asked, taking in the organized layout of the site.

"Yes sir!" Ben answered smartly.

Gabriel laughed. "Anyone can see you've been well-raised, Ben, but my name is Gabriel. I don't think we stopped for a proper introduction. As I'm sure you've gathered, that -" he pointed to the friar in his robes, unfolding his blanket on a bed of pine needles "- is Carl. The other fellow is Lamar."

Ben quirked a grin, sticking out his hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Ben, and this is Ned."

Gabriel shook his hand, before lightly clapping the boy on the shoulder. "My thanks for your patience and good manners, Ben," he said. Neither of the other men noted this exchange, and the hunter smiled. "They'll remember what their mothers taught them soon enough," he said. "Now about that firewood . . . ."

By the time darkness rolled over the camp, a fire was crackling in the ring of stones, and each of the group had a section of the lean-to allotted him. Watches had been divided up, and Ben had surprised them all by insisting he receive one as well.

Gabriel disappeared into the woods, and returned with two rabbits, cleaned and ready for roasting. Dinner was hot and fresh, blessedly free of controversy, though that didn't last long.

As was the tradition, by now, for the conclusion of these debates, both men asked for the hunter's opinion, since he had been listening to them all day.

Gabriel, however, refused to choose between the two options laid out before him. "Both science and theology have their strengths and weaknesses," he pointed out fairly.

"But the story itself," Carl persisted, knowing the hunter would listen patiently and answer honestly.

Gabriel hesitated. "You must remember, Carl," he said very softly, "That the Bible is only a book. It was always intended to guide, not to govern. The Church teaches that the Bible is infallible, that it relates in fact, though not detail, the exact events that occurred. In my eyes, however, religion and the Church can be two entirely separate things. The lessons in the Bible are for each human to take as he or she will. It was written years after the stories it records takes place. It may have truly been inspired by God – I do not really know. The child is never privy to all that a parent does."

The last remark made Ben and Ned glance at each other, and Lamar stared into the fire, poking it moodily with a stick.

"And?" Carl prompted.

Gabriel raised a brow, and then shrugged.

"That's it?" the friar demanded, just a little put out. "You've heard the sides examined from every possible angle, and . . . that's it?"

"To be honest, I stopped paying attention just as we left Boston behind us," Gabriel admitted straightforwardly.

Carl gaped at him.

"I was thinking about what's waiting for us in Boxborough," the hunter finished, glancing out of the lean-to towards the open clearing.

"Hmph," Lamar grunted.

The silence around the campfire was thick with trepidation, and Carl finally broke it. "What's the use of setting out watches if you're all going to try to take mine?"

Ben grinned, and said around a yawn, "I think that's our cue, Ned. Goodnight, mates!"

Gabriel smiled at the boy's irrepressible exuberance.

Lamar grunted, "Wake me for my watch." Gabriel had overruled them all and taken the third watch, graveyard shift, insisting that Ben and Ned take the last. Lamar had agreed, and willingly took the second watch of the night, leaving Carl with the first.

The hunter waited a short time, seeing Ben and Ned curled up in their blankets and Lamar hunched in his bedroll before retiring to sleep himself. "If you need me," he reminded Carl.

The inventor just nodded, quietly asking, "Do you . . . _sense_ anything?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Nothing. But there are still wolves and wild animals. If you have trouble staying awake, let me know and I'll finish your watch." After their journey through Transylvania, neither really needed the words, but Gabriel wanted to make sure that Carl knew nothing had changed despite the circumstances.

Carl nodded, though he had no intention of turning the watch over to anyone but Lamar, when the time came. He turned away from the fire, towards the opening of the lean-to, and began to watch and listen for unusual noises in the forest.

Confident in the friar's ability, Gabriel rolled himself into his blankets, listening to the muted sounds of the night as he slowly allowed himself to be pulled into sleep.

(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-

Ben and Ned, sweet as they are, do not belong to me. They are property of the wonderful Brian Jacques, and are being used without permission. That's why they call it _fanfiction_, folks. To clarify: I will explain their full stories later, of course (grins), for those who haven't read Castaways of the Flying Dutchman or The Angel's Command. Great, light reads for a rainy day, perfect for anyone of any age. I recommend them. If you've already read them, then you'll realize that this is my first crossover ever, and your reviews on how in-character Ben and Ned are will be even more valuable to me. I found the needed impetus for this story, despite doing something I never do and planning it all out beforehand. It's running along now, but I make no promises as SHIDACHI is starting to steal some of my concentration. Hope you've enjoyed, and shoutout once again to all my fabulous reviewers! You rock!


	7. Chapter 7

Gabriel next opened his eyes to see Lamar's face above him. "Your watch," the small man whispered, so as not to wake the others. Gabriel nodded groggily, and rolled from his bundle of blankets. The cold night air was a harsh awakening to his tired body, and he blearily shook the sleep from his mind.

Lamar softly moved to his blankets, and Gabriel looked over in time to catch his smile. Ben and Ned were huddled together for warmth, the dog's snout lying across the boy's neck and breathing into Carl's face, where he was curled up on the boy's other side. Lamar nestled into his own blankets, pressing his back against Carl for warmth. Ben's face was half-buried in the black fur, and the sight made the hunter grin.

Quietly, he paced across the lean-to's opening, stretching and using the cold to wipe the cobwebs from his brain. After a few moments, he sat off to the side, putting his back against on of the trees which supported the half-roof above their heads. The pine was old and sturdy, the lower branches long since sheared away and used to form the small structure.

The hunter began checking his jacket, the force of habit impelling him to make certain that any weapons he might need were close to hand. Finding all satisfactory, he opened his satchel, removed a small whetting stone, and began to sharpen the blades on his knives, replacing each back in their secreted locations when he deemed the edge keen enough for his purposes.

It was an hour into his shift when he heard the noise – not outside, but within the lean-to. A soft whimpering, and the rustling caused by agitated movements in the blankets, caught his attention. He quickly turned, and found that Ned was twitching in his sleep. Thinking nothing of it, he would have disregarded the dog's dreaming if Ben hadn't gasped at that very moment. The towheaded youth's sleep was becoming uneasy, and he cried out softly.

Gabriel realized almost immediately what was happening.

When he had first seen Ben, the boy had sparked a memory, one that harkened back hundreds of years. In 1620, the _Fleiger Hollander _had set sail from Copenhagen on her last voyage. Captain Vanderdecken had been merely a man, yet one whose actions and those of his crew had earned eternal damnation. Vanderdecken, driven by greed to round Cape Horn in his furious journey to Valparaiso, had preformed a black mass before setting sail. Twice defeated by the seas of the Tierra del Fuego, his temper and sanity had buckled before the force of his greed, and the evil powers he had called up to aid him on his journey were unleashed. He turned his fury on the crew, on nature, and finally, attempted the impossible – to strike out against God.

Gabriel had felt the gathering forces from far away, and knowing his duty, he had brought himself to the spot, his presence alone turning Vanderdecken's evil back on the captain and his crew of murders, rapists, and thieves. Yet two innocents had been caught in the crossfire.

A mute young boy, born thirteen or fourteen years before in Copenhagen, had run away from his abusive stepfamily. Thrown into the wharf during the final confrontation with his brutish stepbrothers, he had been dragged aboard the _Flying Dutchman _and used as a galley slave. The dog had also made its way onto the _Fleiger Hollander_ in Denmark, coaxed aboard by the boy then known as Neb, during the last supply stop made by the cursed ship.

The two were hard-used during the voyage, in constant danger and fear for their lives. Gabriel had been unable to save them from the backlash of Vanderdecken's evil, but recognizing the goodness in their souls, he had called on the Power of God to alter the curse, to save the young ones.

While Ben and Ned were bound to remain in the world until the second coming, as Vanderdecken and his crew were cursed to sail the seas, the youths were called to a different destiny. The boy and his dog roamed the earth through the years, never growing older in face or body. Gabriel had continually guided the two from afar, protecting them and leading them to where they could do the most good. However, this was still a difficult life, as the young ones were constantly forced to move on rather than suffer the pain of watching loved ones grow old and die while they remained unchanged. The sound of a bell always heralded their departure, and the boy and dog had grown to anticipate and mourn that sign.

To lessen their difficulties, however, when he had delivered them from the curse, Gabriel had also gifted both with speech. The boy, mute from birth, received the ability to speak any language, while he and the dog were connected, able to hear one another's thoughts. The gifts had saved their lives several times, aiding them in their quest to help others. Unlike Gabriel's battle with the forces of darkness, which was direct and deliberate, Ben and Ned aided people who needed help, those who could not do for themselves. They had helped others like themselves escape slavery and tyranny, aiding in reuniting families and even something as simple – and complex – as simply being friends to those who needed it.

But the scars these youngsters had gained throughout the years haunted them, the horror of their time on the _Flying Dutchman_ ranking foremost among terrible memories. And so the hunter had an idea of what was disturbing Ben's sleep as he knelt next to the boy, sitting on his heels and gazing over him with worried eyes for a moment.

Placing a hand on the troubled brow, Gabriel softly soothed, "It's alright, Ben. Shhh, Ben, it's just a bad dream. Hush now."

The boy slowly quieted under Gabriel's gentle hand, and Ned also began to calm. The dog heaved a doggy sigh, lifting his head just as Ben's eyes blinked open.

"Are you alright?" Gabriel asked quietly, his eyes flicking over to make certain his two companions were still soundly asleep.

The blue eyes staring up at him were clouded with sleep and memory. Ben rubbed his eyes, nodding wordlessly. Opening his mind, Gabriel caught the quick thought sent to Ned. _"What happened?"_

_"We were dreaming again – about -"_

An image of the _Dutchman_ and her ghostly crew sailed into Gabriel's mind from the youth, bathed in the green, otherworldly light of St. Elmo's Fire. Firmly, Gabriel banished the image, replacing it with a memory of his own, one of light and life and family. "Ben, are you alright?"

The boy sat upright, clutching the dog's fur tightly as he nodded his head. "Yes, sir." Gabriel cocked a brow at the formality, but said nothing. "It was just a bad dream."

The hunter checked the boy over. "Yes, I would imagine so."

Ben blushed, lowering his voice. "Did . . . did we -"

Ignoring the betraying 'we', the hunter looked at Carl and Lamar. "No, they're still asleep." Moving over to the fire, the hunter added more wood. Sparks flew into the air, small fireflies whirling towards the heavens before the cold pulled them back to earth.

"Your watch is still an hour or so away," Gabriel pushed his hair back from his face. The flames he tended were hot on his skin, and slowly he pulled away. "Do you think you'll be able to go back to sleep?"

Ben shrugged. "I can try." The gamesome smile made another appearance.

Sitting back against his tree, Gabriel closed his eyes, turning fully away from the fire. He waited a few moments for the afterimages to fade, before gazing out at the nighttime forest. He listened to the conversation taking place between the boy and his dog.

_"What d'you reckon, Ned?"_

_"I reckon you can let go of my fur, if you please. Handsome fellow such as myself can't be sporting any bald spots, now!"_

_"Why, you great furry fraud!"_

Gabriel stifled a chuckle, coughing lightly into his hand to disguise the laugh that broke loose at the boy's indignant thought.

Boy and dog looked at him, and the next thing he heard was, _"Do you think that . . ."_

The hound gave a mental shrug. _"Many things are possible in this world. Remember Dominic?"_

The Facepainter of Sabada had the gift of seeing into a person's soul, the ability to divine the core of a person's being with just a look. A gift, he had confided to Ben, that felt like a double-edged sword at times.

_"Do you want to try calling, and see if he can hear you?" _ Ned inquired, scratching at the blanket beneath him as he stood and turned, trying to get comfortable.

Ben shrugged, and said, "_It's worth a try."_ Taking a steadying breath, he sent the thought out into the night. _"Gabriel?"_

Deciding to keep the surprise minimal, the hunter replied softly, "Yes, Ben?"

There was a shocked silence, and Van Helsing shifted slightly so that he would be able to see the boy out of the corner of his eye.

Both Ben and Ned were staring at him, and out of politeness, Gabriel closed his mind to their conversation.

Ben's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Yes, I can hear you," Gabriel gently replied. "But not unless I listen, intentionally, or you call out to me."

"Why? How?" This time, the boy spoke aloud, though his voice was barely above a whisper.

Although he had been anticipating the question, Van Helsing didn't quite know what to say. "You, Ned and I are a little alike," he managed finally, knowing that he could only fully explain when they had reached Boxborough, and he could speak privately. "If only in that we are different from other people," he qualified. Other than that however, the youngsters had nothing in common with him; they were innocent, while Gabriel knew that there were many scars on his soul, simply from being what he was. Hunter. Destroyer – perditor, in the old Latin. The Left Hand of God.

It was not something he thought about very much, which might have surprised Carl. It wasn't so much that he had remembered, but had discovered something he'd always known. It gave him no reason to hesitate, and it was not something that ever made him doubt his abilities or past actions. Rediscovering what he truly was, rediscovering his destiny on Earth, had been like healing a part of himself he had known was broken, but hadn't been able to do anything about. He had gained understanding, rather than just knowledge alone, and understanding led to acceptance.

He had not changed, not really. He had simply become complete, in a way beyond which most mortals would be able comprehend.

"Can you - "

"I would like to explain everything to you, Ben," Gabriel said quietly. "But I'm afraid that it must wait until a better time. Can you accept that?"

The boy and dog held a silent conversation, and at length, Ned nodded while Ben solemnly replied, "We can wait."

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep until your watch?" Gabriel asked gently, not expecting so.

Ben glanced at Ned, and shook his head. "Not after that, mate!" he grinned somewhat shakily, and Gabriel smiled softly at him. In all his years, the boy had never come across another such as himself – and with good reason. Gabriel was the only one of his brothers on Earth. His particular duty required it – he was the protector, the destroyer, the messenger.

"Tell me, Ben, what brings you to Boxborough?" Gabriel inquired gently.

The boy scooted towards the fire, dragging his blanket with him. Ned joined him, pressed close; but the dog's attention remained focused outside.

Quietly, Ben began to speak. He spoke of the angel that had descended from stormy skies to bring a halt to Vanderdecken's evil, and of his and Ned's purpose for wandering the world. He told Gabriel that he had been staying in Boxborough for several years now, which was a surprisingly long time. No one had as-yet commented on his seeming inability to age.

That was not surprising to the hunter in the slightest. Boxborough was the only community in the world whose every member was part of the Order, aware of both their existence and duty. Even children were raised with the knowledge of the Church's true mission. "I see," the hunter murmured when the tale was done. He thought a moment before continuing. "Ben, would I be correct in guessing that you remember Maguda Razan?" He asked the question very carefully, afraid of the scars the boy might be carrying.

Ben's eyes widened. "How do you know about her?" Ned stilled, his warm brown eyes latched onto the hunter's dark form.

Maguda Razan had been the leader of a tribe of a vile folk who lived in the mountainous border between Spain and France. Her people had reveled in murder and thievery, rejoicing in kidnapping and torture. Ben and Ned, on a quest to rescue a young man kidnapped by the Razan, had come face-to-face with the witch. The twisted sorceress had thrived on evil, and had used her hypnotic powers to see into Ben's memory, delving for a vision of the _Flying Dutchman_ and her cursed crew. But the memory of the angel's descent, and triumph against Vanderdecken's evil, had reached out and struck down the witch, stopping her heart in her chest.

Gabriel shook his head, holding up a hand to forestall the questions he could sense flying through the air. "I promise you I will tell you once we are in Boxborough," he vowed. "But let me simply explain something to you. Maguda Razan was a witch – in the ultimate sense. She bowed before evil, thriving on it as animals thrive on water." The boy's face paled, horrific memories playing behind his eyes, and Gabriel gently settled a hand on his shoulder.

The memories of capture, of being forced to relive his time on the _Dutchman_ and under the heel of terrible evil, raged through Ben's mind. The towheaded youth shook from the force of his recollections, his Labrador doing all he could to pull the youth from his terrifying reverie. Gabriel summoned the smallest part of himself, and opened his mind just a crack, reaching out to the boy.

Light and warmth seemed to surround Ben and Ned, gentling the maelstrom of rampant emotions flying between them, bringing a sense of peace and soothing happiness to the younglings. For the first time, Gabriel spoke to them. _"Are you all right? Ben? Ned?"_

His voice chimed sweetly in their minds, somehow different than anything they had felt before.

_" 'Course,"_ the dog replied, a little indignant. He pushed his head under Gabriel's hand, however, and the human smiled. Taking the hint, Gabriel rested his hand on Ned's head, scratching behind the animal's ears. Huffing a contented sigh, Ned propped his head on the hunter's knee, undoubtedly also sending mental reassurances to his master.

"Yes," Ben answered, somewhat shakily.

"Will you be alright?" Gabriel was loathe to continue if the memories alone were so overwhelming to the youth.

Ben nodded bravely. "I'll be fine."

Gabriel kept his mind open, passing light reassurance to the two, as he resumed speaking. "She was only a witch, one of the lesser evils present in this world. There are others like her, and some worse; creatures that court the devil's power to do their own evil in this world. Carl and Lamar, as well as all the people of Boxborough, are members of an Order that opposes such evil, wherever it is found."

"What about you?" Ben jumped in quickly, taking advantage of the slight pause as Gabriel decided what to say next.

The hunter smiled, pushing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen in his eyes. "I help," he offered simply. "But I am no longer a member of their Order. If I ever really was," he added under his breath. "I am a hunter," he stated baldly, unafraid of what Ben's reaction might be. "There are evils in this world that prey on humans, with names you've probably heard in children's stories. It is my duty to destroy such evils, wherever I find them."

Surprisingly, the youths didn't seem unnerved by this knowledge. After a moment of reflection, Ned pressed his flanks closer to the hunter and Ben seemed to relax. Stormy blue eyes demanded truth from the hunter.

"Do you kill?"

Without hesitation, Gabriel replied, "When I must."

Ned glanced at Ben, and the two stared at one another for a long moment in silent communication. Ben looked back at Gabriel, and then asked, "Are you here because -" He seemed unsure how to finish the question.

Gabriel smiled reassuringly. "The leader of the Knights of the Holy Order recently stepped down, and his successor is learning his role and coming into his authority. His name is Gaspar, and he is concerned about Boxborough. There were rumors, for the past several years, of strange happenings in the area. Although none were confirmed, communication from the town was cut down to the bare minimum last summer. The leaders of the Order became concerned at this, and sent Warren Gray to investigate."

Ben sat up straight at the name.

"However, he could detect nothing – though his messages indicated that he sensed something seriously wrong," the hunter continued, noting the boy's response. "We lost contact with him, and our former leader feared the worst. Gaspar is concerned primarily because this is the only village in the world where every person is a member of our Order, and has knowledge of our mission." Gabriel shrugged. "I'm simply here in case something goes wrong, or there is something unexpected in the town."

Ben glanced at the dog, snugly ensconced between them, before he spoke. "Ned remembers Warren Gray." His voice was low, though through fear or in deference to their sleeping comrades, Gabriel couldn't tell. "I do too. We were told he returned to his home in Kent when he disappeared, about four weeks ago. Ned remembers though, the night before he left, he smelled like fear."

This news was not good.

"Far be it for me to gainsay Ned's nose," Gabriel said lightly, though he could tell that Ben and Ned were more reflective than anxious. "But no, he did not return to Kent; or if he did, he did so without informing the Order. We're simply here to discover his whereabouts."

Ben bit his lip, and Gabriel deliberately glanced away, towards the forest. It had lightened as they talked, and dawn was slowly approaching. Following his gaze, Ben smiled wryly. "It looks as if you took my watch with me," he observed. Gabriel had been planning to do so regardless, but he smiled along with the boy.

"It seems that way," he replied amiably. He gave Ned one last rub on the head before standing and moving to Lamar and Carl. After hauling a grumpy inventor from the warmth of his blankets, he was relieved to find that Lamar, while no more talkative, was quite compliant about rising from sleep.

Breakfast consisted of leftover sandwiches, coupled with the last of the provisions brought from Rome. After the meal, Lamar was markedly more cheerful. Carl, however, continued to mumble imprecations against the sun.

Packing up their belongings took little time, and soon they were on their way. The only sounds that came from the previously talkative pair, however, was a barely-audible remark about how any decent morning didn't start until noon. Stifling his smile, Gabriel saw Ben wink at Ned, and the dog insinuated himself between Lamar and Carl with a happy bark.

Outside the lean-to it was clear to see that the sky was harsh and cloudy. While the sun still shone, it filtered weakly through the trees and Gabriel could only hope that they would reach the village before the heralded storm broke. With that in mind, he kept a close watch on the group as they neared their destination. A slow foreboding, lamenting what was to come, washed over him the closer they came. Different from his more attuned senses, this feeling was harder to pin down – an utterly human jumpiness that was surprisingly hard to ignore. Taking note, Gabriel could only grimly acknowledge that they were walking into a storm more dangerous than they had known.

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All information about the _Flying Dutchman, _as well as references to Maguda Razan, has been taken from Brian Jacques' Castaways of the Flying Dutchman and The Angel's Command. I have no license on these 'truths'.


	8. Chapter 8

Snow feathered lightly over his face; Gabriel glanced up, and could only see more flakes flirting with the wind. Pulling his hat down over his face, he glanced at his friends. According to Ben, they were merely fifteen minutes from Boxborough. Lamar and Carl were indistinguishable, bundled in robes with hoods pulled low over their faces. Ned was frolicking in the low drifts alongside the path, every so often running ahead only to prance playfully back. Ben had his chin tucked into his chest, woolen hat pulled low over his eyes and scarf obscuring the rest of his face. It was barely snowing, but the wind gusted and it was bitterly cold. March in Massachusetts was less mild than they had been led to believe.

The path, such as it was, curved sharply. Ben pointed out a dangerous ravine that was the reason for the abrupt left turn. It was only ten feet deep or so, but the edges were a precipitous drop straight down. It continued on for about three hundred feet, and was about seven feet wide. Many small animals, and sometimes children, had fallen in. In the summer, the bottom was dry, but during spring it was even more dangerous for the water and sludge that pooled at the bottom, forming a viscous quicksand known for sucking into its depths any unwary creature. Covered with snow as it was, it was merely a fall that could be deadly. Ben explained all this while indicating the length and breadth of the ravine, warning them well away from the edge.

A small house was placed far beyond the ravine, and the travelers saw smoke coming from the chimney as they passed. "I live here," Ben told them. "This is the Austins' house."

"It seems to be well outside the village proper," Carl observed. Lamar shot him a glance, and Ben explained.

"Mr. Austin intended to use the land between the house and village. He planned to clear it, for fields and to raise a new barn. But – but when he died, most of his herd was sold to pay off his debts."

Lamar nodded, but Gabriel frowned. Carl stamped his feet in the cold, and Ned noticed, moving to press his warm bulk against the freezing friar.

"I don't know where you'll stay," the youth continued. "But Mayor Hastings will probably have an idea."

"Are we going to his house, then?" Lamar asked the question which was ready to leap off Gabriel's tongue.

"No. The Mayor spends most of his time at the meetinghouse."

For some reason, that answer made the hunter uneasy, and he loosened tensed muscles only with a conscious effort. _I know of no town that has council meetings three times each fortnight, whereupon all the people – including infants, the ill, and the elderly – faithfully attend._ Words from Warren Gray's last missive curled through his mind, bringing with them an unshakable sense of dread.

They continued on their way, and soon entered the town to find that it was even tinier than they had imagined. The heart of the town centered around an open space twenty feet by twenty feet, cornered by the most important buildings. The General Store sat opposite a steepled construction which was obviously the church. Next to the church was a long, low building – the meetinghouse, according to Ben. Opposite this, next to the General store, was a short row of tiny buildings built practically on top of each other. Each one housed one of the small businesses that kept the town running. The smithy was located out behind the General Store, and the bakery on its far side. All the buildings were sturdily constructed and well-kept, the layout of the entire town proclaiming order despite its diminutive size.

No one was on the streets. That was the first thing the hunter noticed, and it didn't sit well with him. While it was numbingly cold, the villagers would be more accustomed to freezing temperatures than the travelers, and the hunter expected to see some people going about their business. At this time of morning, there should have been people going about the everyday business of living.

"Ben, where is everyone?"

The boy glanced back. "At a meeting, I reckon. They happen about every five days. The young 'uns usually play in the meetinghouse, while the Mayor moves everyone into the church."

Gabriel frowned. "That's unusual."

"Why build a meetinghouse if they didn't intend to use it for meetings?" Carl asked lowly, dropping back to walk next to the hunter.

"More importantly, why use a church to address matters of state?" Gabriel asked.

Carl frowned. "Knights of the Holy Order or not, this _is _America." He pulled his hood down further over his head, trudging along the cleared pathway.

"Separation of church and state," Lamar agreed, listening in.

"Not here, apparently," the hunter stated dryly.

Ben shrugged. "Before Mayor Hastings died -"

"Wait. I thought you said -"

Ben smacked his forehead, flushing a little. "Sorry, mates. The Mayor now is Derek Hastings. His father, Joseph Hastings, was the mayor before him. Joseph died a little over a year ago."

"Really?" the hunter murmured.

"What?" Carl stared keenly at Van Helsing. The man had a somewhat preoccupied air – a sure sign that his mind was following a trail none of the others could as yet see.

Gabriel shook himself slightly. "Nothing. It's just that we were unaware that Joseph Hastings had died, that Derek had taken his place. It never came up explicitly in any of Gray's letters."

"That can't be," Lamar asserted. They stood outside the meetinghouse while Ben ran to look in, and see if the Mayor was there. "'This is the only village in the world completely composed of members of our Order. We keep in constant contact with them from Rome."

"Correction," Gabriel answered, his eyes on Ben. The youth shook his head, and Ned ran forward to the church. "We _used_ to keep in constant contact. But -"

Ned's bark cut him off, and Gabriel closed his lips tightly, keeping the rest of his thought to himself. _But communications began to diminish a little over a year ago, just about when Joseph Hastings died. Just about when Derek Hastings followed his steps into control of the town._

"They're in here," Ben reported, lifting his hand to open the door. Ned could hear them.

The silence that fell when Ben opened the door was almost as cold as the wind outside. Gabriel tucked his hands out of sight, readying himself for the fight that was in the air, lowering his head to hide his face. Lamar, on the other hand, pulled back his hood entirely. Carl, accustomed to the general attitude Van Helsing usually faced, simply raised his head and followed.

They entered the room, and the forty-ish man standing at the front smiled and called out to them in a low tenor. "Ben! Ned! We were starting to worry. If you hadn't come back in an hour, I would have sent out Eric and Tyler to find you!"

Though they stood behind him, the travelers could hear the smile in Ben's voice. "Ned'n' I can take care of ourselves, Mr. Hastings. Thanks, though. If we'd been lost we sure would've appreciated it!"

The man stepped away from the rough podium and walked forward, extending his hands in greeting. Tidy chestnut locks framed a long face, the bangs just brushing his piercing green eyes. Derek Hastings had an open air about him, one that exuded confidence and control.

There were about two hundred people in the town, all of whom seemed to be gathered at the church, including children. There were a few curious stares at the travelers, but nothing like the hostile reception they had received at Anna's village in Transylvania. The air of violent desperation that had so permeated that area was absent here.

"Forgive my manners," Hastings said, a bright smile on his face as he moved towards them with hands outstretched. "I am Derek Hastings, mayor of Boxborough."

Lamar clasped hands with the mayor. "I am Lamar Al Ghamdi," he offered simply, shortening his name for convenience. "My people come from the Holy Land."

Derek nodded in acknowledgement. "I am pleased to meet you, and honored that you traveled so far to join my people."

Gabriel caught the strange turn of phrase, sharp eyes taking in the entire room though his main focus was on Hastings. The man seemed very comfortable, and was quite cordial as he greeted Carl.

"Ah! You must be Carl Weldon! We have heard much of the fruits of your talents these past years," Derek complemented him warmly.

Carl seemed taken aback. "Y- you have?" he stammered.

Derek smiled in amusement at the young man's bashfulness. "Of course. Your skills and inventions have been of great benefit to our Order, and we have attempted to recreate some of your tools here, with limited success."

"I would be happy to help," Carl offered.

Derek's face broke out into a genuine grin. "That would be much appreciated," he thanked the friar sincerely. The smile was still on his face when he reached the final member of the group.

"Welcome, good sir," Hastings said. The two men were of a height, and the hunter removed his hat, staring the other in the eye. "I am Mayor Derek Hastings."

He offered his hand.

Gabriel took it without any hesitation. "Van Helsing," he said lowly. The name didn't seem to travel beyond the small group, yet excited whispers broke out throughout the room.

Hastings smiled. "It is a great privilege, sir," he said, bowing slightly.

Of all the reactions Gabriel had ever received, this was the most unexpected. He withdrew his hand and nodded to the Mayor. "Forgive my manners," he said quietly. "I was under the impression that Joseph Hastings was the mayor of Boxborough, and I will admit to being a little surprised by his absence."

The subtle probe for more information seemed to have little effect on the deceased's son. "No," he said smoothly. "My father passed away last January, leaving the town in my care."

"My sorrow for your loss," the hunter murmured. Hazel eyes never stopped assessing the other, moving on to rove warily over the room.

Derek smiled oddly. "That is a very old phrase," he commented. "I have not heard it in a long time."

The hunter shrugged, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

Upon receiving no reply, Hastings smiled and turned to the community. "Brothers and Sisters," he began. "Many of you remember that we received word some time ago of members of our Order who would be traveling from Rome to stay with us. They have finally arrived, and tonight we will celebrate their welcome. I ask you now, who has room to house our Brothers from Europe?"

Several hands were raised, and Hastings smiled. "Your generosity speaks well of you." He surveyed the room, and came to a decision. "Kevin Pardoe, would you house Brother Lamar?"

"My wife and I would be glad to." The man who accepted was round and freckled, his wife seated next to him, a smiling counterpart.

Gabriel tensed. His group was being split. This was not good. No stranger to the concept of 'divide and conquer', the hunter didn't pause to doubt his instincts, despite the seeming harmlessness of the town. He shot a warning glance at the others, and was gratified to see that Carl, at least, was frowning almost imperceptibly.

"Jason Schoen," Hastings called out next.

The lanky man had long gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and a mournful emptiness at his side. "I would be able to house the other young man," he offered.

"Mr. Weldon," Hastings continued. Carl, smoothing the disconcerted expression from his face, blinked at being so addressed, but nodded.

"And lastly -"

The sense of danger - which had never quite dispelled - spiked abruptly. Gabriel found himself reaching for his blades before fisting his hands uselessly at his sides.

"Gabriel could stay with us," Ben piped up. The youth had been standing, not far from the group, forgotten as they made their greetings.

Hastings frowned slightly. "Ben, I'm not sure it would be proper -"

"'Course it would," Ben said. "There's extra room up in the loft." He hesitated slightly. "And there are a few heavy chores round the house that Ned'n'I've been meaning to get to."

Reading the boy's reluctance as refusal to admit that he might need help, Hastings relaxed and nodded. "If the Widow Austin doesn't object," he reproved the boy mildly.

"No sir!" Ben grinned.

"If there are any problems, don't hesitate to come to me," Derek spoke over Ben's head to the hunter.

"I have no wish to make Mrs. Austin uncomfortable," Gabriel did what he could to ease the others' mind.

Hastings nodded, superficially glad that the matter had been resolved. He raised his voice again, authoritatively addressing the small community. "Brothers and Sisters, thank you for your generosity. No doubt our traveling Brothers are tired from their journey. Tonight we will reconvene in the meetinghouse to celebrate their arrival."

With that, he led the community in a short prayer. Gabriel watched as the large group clasped hands for the duration, and pushed aside his feelings of awkwardness at standing somewhat extraneously at the front. Carl shifted his feet nervously, and Lamar looked unsure of what to do with himself. Grimly, Gabriel acknowledged Hastings' skill. He had manipulated the situation to remain perfectly in control at all times, demonstrating it through personally dividing up and assigning the newcomers to homes which would, in all probability, be on opposite ends of the town. The final move was simply a maneuver to put them more off-balance, and to cement his position.

A murmured amen concluded the prayer, and voices rose as people began to gather their belongings and leave.

There was no evidence for the conclusions he was drawing about Hastings' actions – Gabriel was painfully aware of that. Yet he didn't doubt his instincts, and he recognized political exploitation of a situation when he saw it. But he could not as yet divine its purpose.

Gabriel stepped closer to Lamar and Carl. "We'll need to talk. _Away_ from the townspeople," he emphasized. "Rest. Come to the celebration tonight – we'll set up a place and time to speak when we're there."

Whatever else he might have said was stillborn on his tongue when Hastings approached. He introduced Carl and Lamar to their respective hosts, and Gabriel took his leave, weaving through the crowd toward the door.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him, ten feet from the exit. The hunter turned swiftly, and found a thick man eyeing him critically. "Richard Ancell," he introduced himself in a rumbling bass. "Blacksmith." Gabriel raised a brow, but before he could say anything, the other man continued. "So . . . you're the great Van Helsing."

The hunter could see something predatory in the other man's assessment of him. Ancell was a few inches taller, with much greater girth and heavily muscled from work in the forge.

The hunter kept his eyes focused on Ancell's face, refusing to engage in a war of wills with the other man. He inclined his head ever so slightly, and the blacksmith grunted. "Good evenin' to you." With that, the mammoth of a man turned and carved his way through the other townspeople, toward Derek Hastings.

Eyes narrowed, the hunter turned toward the door.

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(vaguely pokes review button with stick) . . . (debates merit of reviewing oneself) . . . (discards notion) . . . (stares hopefully at readers) . . .


	9. Chapter 9

Carl was a little disconcerted by the reception they had received in Boxborough. It was too public for his tastes, and he had felt uncomfortably like a prize vegetable being shown off at the county fair. Absurd as the impression seemed on reflection, he decided it was the most accurate.

After all, traveling with Van Helsing meant certain things could be taken for granted. The hunter never received a warm welcome, and accordingly always maintained a low profile. Being so thrust into public awareness didn't sit well with Carl, and he knew that Gabriel would also be discomfited, at the very least.

The welcome they had been given was strange. While he expected a village composed entirely of members of the Order to be more informed about Van Helsing's actions, Carl had caught wind of some of the whispers floating through the air at the hunter's introduction. There had been awe, and wonder; emotions beyond the simple acknowledgement or respect the friar had anticipated. If he had to put words to it, Carl could only say that it was the extreme opposite reaction than what they usually endured. Even within the Vatican, Van Helsing was more likely to endure suspicion than encounter friendliness.

Yanking his mind from troubling thoughts, Carl mustered up a smile for his host, who sat down on the bench opposite him.

After the meeting in the church and Gabriel's terse message, the three had separated, following their respective hosts to their lodgings. Mr. Schoen was a recent widower, and his house still held traces of the absent feminine presence that he so obviously missed. There was more than enough room for both men to reside in comfort, though Schoen freely admitted that he was lacking some amenities that his wife had provided. Regardless, Carl had taken the hours between arrival and the elaborate welcome to bathe, eat and rest.

Evening had fallen, and Schoen had silently led Carl back to the meetinghouse. His home was one of many small abodes clustered haphazardly behind the General Store. Carl's attempt to draw the taciturn Mr. Schoen into conversation had yielded the information that most of the homes were located on small side streets behind the main town square. The Pardoes lived closer to the meetinghouse. Gabriel, on the other hand, was housed on the far outskirts of the town. If Hastings had wanted to divide them, he had done a damn good job.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Carl spoke to his host, uncomfortable with the silence between them.

He thought his words were lost in the bustle of celebration, but Schoen sat back on the bench, rubbing his neck. "Least I could do," he rumbled, looking as uncomfortable as Carl felt.

But the friar couldn't hide his perplexity. "Uh, how so?"

Schoen shrugged. "For all you've done for the Order. I'm glad to help."

"I was just doing my job." Carl easily dismissed the other's perceived debt.

Schoen's head jerked up. "No," he insisted, leaning forward. His eyes locked on Carl's, showing a frightening intensity. The friar was taken aback by the sticklike man's sudden animation. "No – you and your comrades have done so much for our fight. And now that you've agreed to help us -" One side of his mouth curled upward in a somewhat ruthless smile. "We'll be better prepared for the fight ahead."

"Fight?" Carl suppressed his alarm.

Schoen nodded. "Of course. We are always fighting against the forces of darkness, is it not the same in Rome?"

Carl shrugged, eyes wide. "Not – not quite," he managed.

Schoen flapped a weathered hand at him. "I admire your modesty. But we received word of the battle against the great demon that took place in the Holy City itself. Your triumph was cause for great rejoicing." Words flowed from the man in a surprising stream, given his previous tight-lipped tendencies.

Carl froze. "I'm – I'm glad to hear that," he babbled once his voice returned to him. "Thank you. I'm just going to – I'll just be – going – now – I'll speak with you later?"

Before the other could reply, Carl threw him a somewhat sickly smile, gained his feet, and nearly bolted into the crowd. Schoen's thoughts on the encounter remained hidden behind a blank visage, as he rose and made his way in the opposite direction.

It is a difficult thing to politely shove a path through tightly-packed crowds, but somehow Carl managed it. The hunter, however, was nowhere in sight. Thinking quickly, Carl pressed past the few people crowded up against the wall, managing to avoid those dancing in the center of the room by sheer luck. Spotting Lamar, he snagged the other's sleeve on his way by, and the two unobtrusively slipped out the door.

The sigh of relief that issued from his lips was a clearly visible plume in the cold air. The hunter, who had snuck out a little earlier, was lurking in the shadows by the corner of the building, well away from any windows. "There you are," Carl breathed. Still absently pulling Lamar behind him, he ducked past the windows to arrive at Van Helsing's side. "Have you talked to any of the townspeople?" he hissed immediately.

Gabriel raised a brow, a small smile quirking his lips. "Good evening to you too, Carl."

"Well, I have," Carl persisted indignantly. "And let me tell you, it was strange!"

"How strange?" Gabriel asked thoughtfully, abandoning his playful teasing. The hunter's hat was pulled low over his head, and he seemed at ease in the freezing temperatures outdoors. At least it had stopped snowing.

"_Very_ strange," Carl emphasized. "I talked to my host – Jason Schoen, is his name."

"The tall, grey-haired man? A widower, from the look of it," Lamar pulled his sleeve irritably from Carl's grasp, but the auburn-haired man only rubbed his fingers together in a futile effort to keep warm.

"Yes. He seemed -" the friar paused, chewing his lower lip as he searched for words.

"Yes?" Lamar urged, leaning against the outer wall of the meeting house next to the hunter. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, wrapping his arms around his chest to stay warm.

"He was very dedicated to 'the fight'," Carl murmured at last. His use of air quotes did less to elucidate his meaning than he knew. Gabriel's look of patented confusion went unnoticed.

"'The fight'?"

"He actually used the phrase 'forces of darkness'," Carl burst out, his discomfort evident.

"That's trite," the Jerusalemite commented acidly.

Gabriel snickered.

"Who _says_ that?" the friar demanded of his comrades.

"Someone very committed to a cause," Gabriel riposted seriously. "Did he seem . . ." the hunter trailed off, distractedly gesturing with one hand.

"Zealous," Lamar supplied. "Over-enthusiastic, maybe?"

"I just – I don't know!" Carl threw his hands up into the air, whirling away from them and taking a few steps away from the shelter of the building before turning back. "I don't know why I should be so – so -"

"Frightened?" Gabriel gently suggested.

"Yes! No!" Carl snapped. He rubbed his forehead distractedly, taking a calming breath. "Disturbed. It was very disturbing," he confessed, subdued. "It's just – he acted as if he knew what we do, what _you_ do," he directed his words at the hunter, eyes firmly locked on dark, distant shapes he knew to be homes. "And instead of fearing it, he – he admired it. Glorified it." Carl cast a pleading look at Gabriel, silently begging him to understand.

The hunter frowned, the expression clearly visible to the others despite the hat pulled low over his face. "What I do," he stated very calmly, "is destroy. I destroy evil. People who do not know the truth have cause to fear me – but those who are aware of what I really do have even more reason to do so." He shifted uncomfortably. "I have come across those who adore the violence of it." Gabriel winced, the words coming slowly, with difficulty. "Oftentimes they didn't truly know what it was that we fight."

Carl shook his head. "I want to believe that is the case," he said steadily. "But Schoen knew about Beelzebul, Gabriel!"

The hunter's head shot up, and he fixed Carl with an urgent stare. "_What?_"

Carl shook his head. "No details, not even the creature's true name. Nothing of the Spear," he added with a sidelong glance at Lamar.

The dark-skinned man snorted derisively. "Rome did loose contact with the outer reaches of the Order for several days," Lamar reminded the others in his precise voice. "Such a breakdown of communications would be noticed even here."

Gabriel shook his head. "The communications between Boxborough and Rome have been sporadic for over a year, and decreased significantly last June. The cable between Boxborough and Acton broke down then, and hasn't been repaired. A few days' lapse of communication would go unnoticed here."

"Then how would they even know of the attack on the Holy City?" Carl wondered. At the others' lost expressions, he explained. "Think about it. You said it yourself, Gabriel. Even within the Order, missions are concealed; and that last would spur a panic the likes of which have rarely been seen."

Gabriel nodded in comprehension. "For word of that to travel across the sea, when even the attack itself should have remained secret . . . " he mused.

Carl recognized the glint immediately. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering," the hunter murmured pensively. "How is it that we receive almost no word of the goings-on in this little town, when the secrets of the Vatican are common knowledge here?"

Discomfited by the piercing question, Lamar shrugged. "In your own words, Schoen at least seemed more enamored of the violence than the Spear," he offered quietly.

"Yes."

"I wonder what Derek Hastings' reaction would be." Gabriel glared in the direction of the meetinghouse door. He obviously did not like the man; primarily because his first impression of the mayor was that he was supposed to. The silence prevailed for a brief time, but the hunter surfaced from his thoughts with yet another question. "Did either of you find out anything from your hosts about Warren Gray?"

Carl snorted. "According to Mr. Schoen, Warren Gray departed for home in Kent after sending off his last missive. He seemed happy to return to his home, and they haven't heard from him since. Lamar?"

Dark eyes staring into the night, the Jerusalemite sorted his thoughts. "I am staying with Kevin and Louisa Pardoe," he began. "They seem amiable enough. I did ask of Warren Gray. According to Mrs. Pardoe, Gray suffered with sickness much of the time he was here. Supposedly, he became ill during the voyage over Atlantic, and was unable to recover due to the harsh weather. She said that he was fevered much of the time, and seemed disoriented."

"This casts doubt on the information in all the reports he sent, if he was truly ill during the entirety of his stay here." Carl's troubled glance at the hunter received only a grunt in response.

"I do not know how far I believe that," Gabriel sighed.

"Why would you doubt her?" Lamar queried frankly, lines appearing on his brow.

It was the hunter's turn to be lost for words. Groping for something to say, he unfolded his arms from where they were crossed over his chest, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Instinct," he growled, shoving down his embarrassment.

Carl's expectant expression demanded elaboration.

"I don't sense anything . . . tangible," Gabriel proffered an explanation, knowing that Carl would understand what he was referring to. "I just have a gut feeling that I can't ignore," he shrugged, somewhat frustrated with his inability to put the twitchy alertness pervading his mind into words. "Already, a few things don't add up."

Lamar shrugged. "That was the most I could learn from Mrs. Pardoe. Mr. Pardoe – Kevin," he amended awkwardly. "Kevin was less talkative about the subject, though he essentially agreed with his wife."

Gabriel nodded thoughtfully, leaning back against the building's corner to stare into the dark sky. Stars speckled the velvety blackness like diamonds scattered on silk. "I spoke with Widow Austin," he began. "She remembered Warren Gray. He had been a frequent visitor to her house, especially after her husband's death in December. From what I could gather, Anthony Austin died in an accident; Mrs. Austin was too pained by the memory to speak of it, and Ben doesn't know the details." Something for which Gabriel was quietly thankful. Shaking his head, the hunter continued. "She didn't mention him being ill, but she didn't have a high opinion of him. Apparently, Gray persisted in asking her about her husband's death, professing to guilt for not being able to prevent it."

"If it was an accident, how could he have prevented it?" Carl vocalized, confusion evident.

Lamar shrugged. "Perhaps simply by being present?"

"Maybe." Gabriel's tone of voice indicated that he wasn't sure if he believed it, but he continued regardless. "He stopped showing up around the twentieth of January, and when the Widow went into town a week later, she discovered that he had departed for home. According to those she spoke with, at any rate."

Carl sighed. "This is going to be even more impossible than the search for that damnable Spear," he grumbled irritably. "At least then we had more to go on than hear-say and supposition."

Gabriel brooded over this for a moment. "We came here to find out what happened to Warren Gray," he reminded the others. "We need to continue to ask about him, but in a roundabout way. Try not to draw more attention than necessary."

"Of course," Carl agreed quietly.

Gabriel looked around them carefully, lowering his voice. "Also, there's something amiss in this town. Whatever it was, it's at the heart of Gray's disappearance. We have to find out what it is – but I don't want either of you to ask any direct questions."

"Why not?" Lamar challenged.

Gabriel shook his head. "Warren Gray came here searching for an answer. We don't know where he is now, and although we're in a group, we're still heavily outnumbered. I just don't want to raise any suspicions, especially if we're being looked on with respect right now. That's a protection that I don't want us to lose."

The hunter breathed a sigh of relief at the others' understanding nods. Lids slipped down briefly over hazel eyes, before he blinked and noticed that Lamar was shivering.

"Meet me halfway between the Austin home and the town, tomorrow at ten?" he offered, suddenly eager to conclude their meeting and return to the warmth.

"Sure," Carl chattered, ducking his head down under his hood.

Lamar could only nod.

They had been so absorbed in their conversation that they had disregarded the cold. Now, they paid the price, with frozen fingers and toes. As he shook out his fingers, out of the corner of his eye Gabriel saw Carl return to the meetinghouse.

"Aren't you going back inside?"

Lamar gave him a tiny, somewhat bitter smile. "No."

"Why not?" the hunter's curiosity got the best of him, but he kept all his attention directed outward as opposed to focusing on the man shivering at his side.

The moon was barely a sliver, almost impossible to find among the swiftly-traveling clouds. What little light reflected off the snow was from the stars, twinkling faintly down at them. It was very dark outside.

"My hosts are very accepting," Lamar's subdued voice surprised the hunter, whose every sense was strained to the utmost. "But I have heard . . . comments, from some of the other townspeople."

"Comments?" the hunter did not like the sound of this, and it showed.

"Derogatory remarks," Lamar murmured, a blush darkening his face. "The color of my skin gives some pause, here."

It was not wholly unexpected. The Vatican was a seat of incredible diversity, where the members of the Order worked tirelessly to maintain their opposition against evil. Everyone who arrived there, no matter their appearance, came with one ultimate purpose in mind. Superficial differences were ignored in the drive of that all-consuming goal. While what Carl had said led Gabriel to believe the people of Boxborough considered themselves as doing something similar, they were still in Massachusetts. The war between the states had taken place almost thirty years past, and some prejudice was understandable given the fact that the entirety of the town populace was pale-skinned. Understandable, but not acceptable. The slight angered the hunter, though he kept it in check.

"There was a man – others said his name was Ancell – who was very vocal." Lamar was anxious about anything that could rouse the townspeople against them – but he could not help what he was.

Gabriel frowned at the name. "I do not think it is the color of your skin that is most bothersome to Mr. Ancell," he said coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"The blacksmith has a quarrel of some sort with me as well, I believe," Gabriel admitted. "I haven't spoken to the man, but he addressed me with . . . quite a lot of anger. It may just be because we are strangers. He might be looking for a reason to fight," the hunter revealed his suspicions.

Lamar laughed bitterly. "Of course. I had forgotten that merely being different was reason enough for scorn, from some."

"Just so," Gabriel replied grimly. It was getting very late, and neither of them was warm. "Would you mind showing me where the Pardoe's house is?" he asked at last. "I want to know where you'll be, if I need to find you."

Lamar nodded knowingly. "Follow me."

In silence, the two men left the meager shelter of the meetinghouse, stepping full into the wind. Lamar shuddered convulsively, and picked up the pace so that he was almost jogging toward the row of stores across the street. Gabriel followed him through a narrow alley between a bakery and a seamstress', coming out onto a row of houses sequestered behind the main square proper. The homes were all small, the windows dark.

"The Pardoes are both attending the gathering tonight," Lamar spoke over the wind. "But they told me the location of an extra key, should I want to return early." The short man stretched, brushing his fingers over the top of the door, which he could only just reach. Something clattered onto the front stoop – the key had been placed on a ledge created by the molding around the door. Gabriel crouched, retrieving the errant piece of metal, and handed it to Lamar. The Jerusalemite lost no time in letting himself in. He bid the hunter a swift goodnight, barely understandable through chattering teeth, before firmly shutting the door against the cold.

Gabriel shook his head, chuckling a little. Long inured to temperature extremes through experience, the hunter pulled his hat down lower and ducked back into the cold and the wind, heading for the far outskirts of the town.

(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-

I'm sorry about the increasing chapter length – while my personal goal is 2,000 wds/chap, I seem unable to keep it much less than 3,000 . . . oh well. The next chap may be awhile – between stray kitten hunting and graduation parties, I'm not looking at serious typing time until Sun. Thanks to _trecebo_ for the suggestion about race . . . I hadn't considered it before, but it made sense when I thought about it, so I decided to incorporate it. SHOUTOUT TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! My pleas for feedback were warmly responded to, thank you all!

A quick answer to a question that's popped up a lot – no, none of my stories are posted on other sites, I do not have a personal website of any sort, or a yahoogroup or anything. Aside from ffnet and Microsoft Word, I'm shockingly computer deficient(Which is why any funkiness with ffnet gets me worked up, lol!). If enough people requested it, I could probably muddle through creating one (as I have oodles of free time after this weekend). What you see here is the fastest update available.


	10. Chapter 10

The following morning, Gabriel was awakened by the sound of movement downstairs. He'd slept on a straw mattress on one side of the loft, which held most of the foods that had been preserved and stored away for the winter. It smelled of smoked meats and spices, and the one small window was located above the mattress, situated opposite the stairs.

Pulling himself from the blankets, Gabriel shivered in the morning chill. Bare feet padded noiselessly across the loft, descending the stairs with the silence of practice.

The Widow Austin was awake, moving serenely about the room in preparation for the morning meal. Gabriel cleared his throat softly, and she spun, surprised. "Oh!"

"I'm sorry to have startled you," the hunter apologized.

Mathilde Austin was a lanky young woman not even thirty, tall and slender with willowy grace. The angular planes of her face were softened by alluring brown eyes and full lips, which were pressed into a thin line more often than not. She wore her brown hair severely scraped back into a long braid that brushed her waist. Though worn, her clothes were respectably mended and she carried herself without shame for her situation.

Mathilde steadied herself a moment before responding. "That's quite all right. Did I wake you?"

Gabriel's loose pants and shirt testified to his state of undress, and he subtly turned his wrist, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the knife that had sprung immediately to his fingers upon waking. The three other weapons still on his person were similarly concealed. The hunter disregarded the question. "It's high time for me to be awake. Are Ben and Tanya still asleep?"

Gabriel had met Tanya the night before. The five-year-old whirlwind was the image of her father, according to her proud mother. While already her face and figure mimicked Mathilde's slenderness, her hair was lighter, almost a blonde, and her eyes much darker than those of her mother. Dimples flashed with every white-toothed smile. The child was a study in contradictions – shy around Gabriel, yet a shrieking playmate for Ned and Ben. The three had romped around the house while Gabriel had gotten settled the previous afternoon. When the hunter had returned to the Austin house that evening, the young ones had been asleep. Widow Austin's absence at the meetings was expected, and though she neither wanted nor needed it, it seemed that she garnered the sympathy of many in the town.

"Yes," Mathilde whispered. She smiled. "Tanya missed Ben and Ned." The noise of an opening door caught their attention. Mathilde turned to look, and smiled as Ben emerged from a tiny room off the main living area. Ned trotted past the tousle-haired youth, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The black Labrador settled by the fire, yawning cavernously. Gabriel couldn't help his smile at the animal's contentedness.

"G'morning," Ben mumbled around a yawn of his own. The boy settled himself at the table, and Mathilde pushed a plate of bread within reach. Ben's smile was dazzling as he helped himself. Mathilde's gentle contentment, pouring him a glass of milk, completed the picture of serenity.

Gabriel moved upstairs to collect his clothing, bringing the items back downstairs and out to a tiny, freezing lean-to built against the outside of the house. The room held tools and less-used items, and the hunter was glad for it. He left his clothing there, and poked his head outside. Chill as the little room was, it was much warmer than the dark morning. Steeling himself to the temperature, the hunter swiftly stripped and stepped out into the snow. Grabbing a handful of the freezing white stuff, he quickly rubbed it over his arm and chest in an impromptu bath. Stifling a yell at the shock of cold against his skin, Gabriel continued to grab fistfuls of snow, feeling the blood rush to his skin at the contact. Within moments, he had finished and returned to the lean-to, drying off with a towel Mathilde had given him for bathing – probably not in the fashion he had just demonstrated, he thought ruefully. Dressing as swiftly as possible, the hunter returned to the main room, distractedly rubbing the towel over his still-wet hair. It had nearly frozen before he got inside, and once in the warmth of the house, it dripped annoyingly into his eyes.

He pushed the sopping locks back from his head irritably, and availed himself of the Widow's hospitality. Breakfast was warm porridge, flavored with dried fruit, milk and honey. Tanya pattered from bed midway through the meal, climbing up onto the bench next to Ben and waiting patiently for her food. Mathilde fed her family and guest before sitting down to eat herself.

Gabriel finally broke the silence. "Ben, you told the Mayor there were a few chores that you've been meaning to get to," he alluded to the previous day's conversation in the church.

Ben nodded, his blonde hair a disheveled halo over a face flushed from proximity to the fire. "Ned'n'I fixed up the walls for winter with mud cauking," he answered. "Took clay out from beyond the old millpond, before it froze, and hauled it back here for the repairs. But we couldn't get to the roof."

Mathilde clucked her tongue at him. "As if I would let you up on that roof by your lonesome," she scolded, looking up from her meal to give the boy a reproving glance.

Ben ducked his head, but the blush and pleased smile at her concern were quite clearly seen by the hunter. "There's nothing truly wrong with it," he put in, giving Ned a glance. "It's just the far corner, up in the loft."

Gabriel nodded – he had noted the bucket gathering snow-melt, and the many blankets Mathilde had heaped into his arms had been much appreciated during the night. "Shall we take a look at it now, then?" he offered, noting that all except Tanya were finished with the morning meal.

"I'll get my coat," Ben said eagerly.

Mathilde nodded, collecting the dishes and graciously accepting the polite thanks extended by both the youth and the man. Gabriel stood, moving quickly to the loft to collect his own outer gear, layering a gray sweater over his black shirt. Ready to face the outdoors, he pulled on his boots and inquired of Ned, "Do you know where there are the tools to fix the roof?"

The black Lab's thoughtful nod and one assenting bark followed Gabriel to his feet; the hunter smiled. "Lead on, Ned."

Ben found the two in the lean-to, poking curiously through the jumbled mess of tools and odd-bobs kept by Mr. Austin. They found several serviceable wooden slats, nails and a hammer – Gabriel picked up a few extra items to stow in the pockets of his coat to seal the replaced shingling against the icy wind. Before going out, Gabriel lit two lanterns, one for himself and one for Ben, as it was pitch-dark outside, despite the early hour.

Ben and Ned watched from the ground as the hunter gingerly ascended the just-discovered and fairly precarious ladder. He carefully tested each rung before entrusting his weight to it; such was a precaution the much-lighter boy would have neglected to take.

_"What're you thinking?"_ Ned's thought rang in Ben's mind, and the boy smiled.

_"I think . . . he's safe._"

Ned's silent concurrence, trusting to an instinct which had never led the two wrong, assured the boy. The quiet hunter with the inscrutable eyes was good – they could feel that in their bones. He was also safe, worthy to be entrusted with their secret and their very lives, in a way that Raphael Thuron had not been. That good-hearted buccaneer had learned of their secret after foiling a ghostly attempt by Vanderdecken to reclaim the two youths once they were at the mercy of the high seas and their own nightmares. Given a choice, Ben probably wouldn't have told Thuron of the _Flying Dutchman_ and all that had transpired on her decks. Though both he and Ned accepted that all had come right in the end, Thuron's death weighed heavily on both of them. Few were those who had learned of their secret over time – and all who had been told had been weighted down by impending fate at the time, and not long for this world upon the telling.

This man, though, was different. He was somehow like them, more _human_ than any other who had ever learned, or guessed, of Ben's otherness. He was strong and quietly confident, his presence indisputably _alive_ in a way beyond the surrounding villagers.

"I see the problem," Gabriel's voice, deep and comforting, drifted over the roof to them.

"Can you fix it?" Ben called hopefully, echoing Ned's thought.

"Shouldn't be too hard," was the grunted reply. "Look out below!"

Ben and Ned stepped back quickly. A moment latter, two rotted wooden shingles landed in the snow, quickly followed by a few more. Working together, Ben and Ned took the wood into the lean-to so that it could dry. There was no sense in wasting valuable fuel, especially since winter wouldn't begin to loosen its grip on the land until the end of the month, at least.

Ten minutes more of expectant silence, punctuated only by the ear-splitting squeal of rusted metal and the sound of a hammer, followed. The shuffling noise of someone moving carefully over the slick roof caught their attention, and the boy and dog waited as the hunter maneuvered his way down the ladder. With two feet firmly planted on the ground, the older man turned and smiled at them.

The expression changed his handsome features, warming his face and gentling the hazel eyes. "I know I promised to speak with you both," the hunter said softly, his words dimming Ben's answering smile.

"Yes," the youth replied cautiously.

"Would you be satisfied with today, then?"

Ben jumped at the offer. "Mathilde and Tanya usually go into the town in the morning," he told the older man. "I go, mostly, but Ned'n'I can ask to stay behind today."

"If you are comfortable letting the Widow and Tanya travel that distance on their own," the hunter replied seriously, not belittling the youths' concerns for their adopted family.

Ben's clear blue eyes grew clouded. "I think Ned and I want to see them there," he finally replied. The two had moved to the lean-to, removing boots and coats. "Mr. Ancell, the blacksmith, is usually good enough to see them back."

A wry expression crossed the hunter's face, but he smiled. "Go and ask permission, then," he softly encouraged the boy. Ben needed no second bidding.

The small family set out not long after, Ben guiding Tanya while Ned held a basket in his teeth for Mathilde. Gabriel set about cleaning the area he had slept in, and seeing to a few minor repairs about the house, while he waited for the youths to return. They were back within the hour, shaking snow from boots and coats of cloth and fur.

Ben had been nervously thinking about this almost from the moment the older man had reminded them of his promise. He truly wanted to know just how the hunter knew so much about them; he had gotten an answer, of sorts, from Dominic, who had also sensed something different about the towheaded youth and his dog. But the other boy hadn't really known what to make of what he saw. The only other one they had come across in their travels was an old Padre, strong in his faith but with no answers for them.

He and Ned had raced back to the cabin, the dog winning by a hairsbreadth, or so he claimed. A gentle lick to his hand brought his attention to Ned, and Ben mustered up a small smile for his friend. _"Nervous?"_ the dog thought.

_"You bet. I wasn't this scared when we were being chased by that awful Spaniard_."

"There's no need to be frightened," Gabriel's voice drifted clearly from where he was sitting, across the room. The hunter was sitting, cross-legged, on the floor in front of the fire.

Ben gathered his courage and moved across the room. Ned flopped down between the two, his attention on the dark-haired man relaxing before the flames. "You remember," he began softly, "that I said we were a bit alike? Just in being different from other people?"

The careful question was answered with a hesitant nod.

"You wanted to know how I could know of things in your past," the hunter's face was turned to the fire. "When I explained about Maguda Razan's true nature, and when I stepped in to quell your memories." It seemed to Ben that the hunter was very hesitant to bring up the subject, seemingly afraid of the effect it might have on him. His back straightened.

"Yes," he answered, feeling more bold than before, ready to voice a question. "That was you?"

"Yes." The hunter's eyes turned from the fire to catch his, and Ben's breath caught. The ancient wisdom in those hazel eyes caught him, pierced his very soul, and he felt a light pressure on his mind, as if someone was knocking, gently requesting entry. Ben nodded slowly, feeling as if he was being pulled into those eyes, and he felt no fear. Ned, too, was staring inward now, at the memories being carefully – so carefully! – presented to them.

**Time before all recounting, man walked the earth, and Gabriel tread the ground amongst them, guiding, teaching, and hunting – **

**Gabriel was walking next to another man, speaking to him in an ancient language, laughing – **

**But now that man was dying, crucified for his crimes, and as a spear sliced into his side, blood and - something else - poured from the wound – **

**It was much later, for the clothing was different. Again, Gabriel was walking, this time in a dark wood, and there was no one by his side. He was hunting – **

**And he was hunting in this desert, searching for something – **

**He was called to the sea, now – **

**And the man Ben and Ned thought to be human, a hunter, descended from the sky in light and glory and beauty beyond the reckoning of man, descended to hunt and to confront a wicked ship's captain who had called upon the powers of evil and nurtured that power in his twisted heart. He repulsed the attack, the evil overwhelming the captain and crew, bathing the ship itself in its darkness . . . but the light of innocence, pained and afraid, glowed from the deck and Gabriel reached out, to save, to preserve . . . shielding the two young ones from harm. **

**But they had been touched by so much power that they would forever be changed. So he continued, then – and Gabriel bestowed on them the gift of speech. And he guided them, protected them from afar. **

There was a shift in time, then. Hundreds of years were compressed into a single moment, rushing up to one specific memory.

**The boy glanced around at the small town. _"Are you sure this is it?"_ he thought to the dog. **

**Ned gave a mental shrug. _"You felt it, same as I did. This is the place to stop."_**

**Ben was still warily casting his eyes around. _"This place feels different,"_ he thought at last. _"It's dark. But safe, for now."_**

**_"Well, that's good to hear at least. I think -" _and the erstwhile dog was for once, lost for words. **

**_"I think we may be here for a while,_" Ben finished. **

**_"That lady looks nice,"_ Ned suggested, glancing at a tall, thin woman with a babe balanced on her hip. A man just her height, with sandy hair and a kind face, bent over the child, cooing softly. Giggles lilted through the air, coming from the bundle, and a beautiful smile crossed the woman's face. **

**_"Yes."_ The thought seemed to come from both of them at once. **

It was the memory of their arrival in Boxborough, a little over four years ago. Ben felt the other man receding, his mind closing off from them. He opened eyes that he couldn't remember shutting, and this time was able to look directly into the other's blazing stare.

"It was you," he breathed softly, in full understanding. The angel that had guided them for so long, watching over them and heeding their prayers.

In mortal incarnation, the being staring at them was concerned, now. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"God is my strength," Ben marveled, turned the meaning of the hunter's name over on his tongue, tasting the words.

"I am Gabriel," the hunter confirmed, watching the boy carefully. And in the wisdom of his eyes, there was no doubt. It even made sense – Gabriel, the angel sent to guide Mary, Daniel, Zechariah and others in their dreams, guided Ben and Ned through dreams as well.

All his questions were answered, now.

_"But why have we stayed here so long?"_

Gabriel answered Ned, his eyes sad, shuttered, and inexplicably different than before. "That," he sighed, "is entirely my fault, and I am truly sorry for it." The hunter took a breath before explaining. "Over five years ago, I came across an evil that entered this world without my knowledge. His name was Beelzebul – and he was one of the Fallen, though he had always been minor." Ben shuddered with that knowledge. Gabriel winced at the youth's reaction, continuing gently but not shielding the two from the truth. "He was searching for the head of the Spear of Longinus, the spear which pierced the side of the Christ as he hung upon the cross." The foreign memory, and the faded pain of it, flitted through Ben's mind and was gone just as quickly. "When I discovered what he was looking for, I knew that he could never discover where it was. At that time, I was perfectly aware of the Spear's location, but events that I had set in motion hundreds of years before were coming to a head. If I did not manage to divert Beelzebul for a few years, two great evils would have been unleashed on the world, and they would have wreaked havoc before they were stopped.

"I planned very carefully what I would have to do next – but I knew that I would be unable to help you for a time, perhaps years. I wanted you and Ned safe, but I knew your need to help others would keep you from finding peace." His smile was poignant, eyes lost in memory. But it encouraged a reluctant smile from Ben in return. "I led you here, in the hopes that you would be safe for a time, before the darkness came. And then I provoked Beelzebul into a fight, to feed him false information and lead him away from the Spear. But the only way the ruse would work was for him to beat me in that fight, beat me so badly that there was no question about the veracity of what I told him. As I expected, he took the information he thought he needed from my mind, before hiding my memories from me."

"You – you knew you would lose your memory?" Ben stammered, somewhat shocked.

Gabriel grimaced. "The one thing Beelzebul would never understand," he explained calmly, "is sacrifice for a cause. It is – beyond him, in every way. For me to plan all of that, for my goal to be anything other than victory, would have been incomprehensible to him. He is fundamentally unable to conceive that I would seek to do anything but destroy him."

Ned stilled at the use of present tense, his head rising from Ben's lap. _"Is?"_

"He no longer walks this Earth," the hunter reassured them, certainty in every line of his being. "Should he return from his master's realm, I would know it immediately. You have nothing to fear from him."

Ben nodded and the black Lab relaxed again, tail thumping softly against the wooden floor.

"I am sorry I left you here so long," the hunter apologized.

"It couldn't be helped," Ben easily dismissed the apology. "Besides," and here he glanced at Ned, "we've needed a bit of a break."

Gabriel laughed, the sound both strong and sweet. "Yes, I believe you might have," he replied, and in his tone was a wealth of understanding for the tears shed for friends both left behind and gone before.

Ben's blue eyes were clouded, deep in thought. The silence, content and golden, spun out between them. The hunter sat back, confident in the boy's ability to understand all the information being presented to him. He was a remarkable boy. When the first question came, it led to a deep conversation for all three, delving into emotions of loneliness all too familiar to each of the beings in that simple room. For Gabriel, the complete acceptance and trust Ben and Ned gave him was the most precious gift he had ever received. For the youths, it was the knowledge that there would always be help, there would always be guidance, which brought the most comfort. Adult as they could be, there were still times when Ben longed for a true grown-up to turn to.

"All you need to do is call for me," Gabriel told him seriously. "Either one of you. It does not matter if you speak aloud or in your minds. If ever you have need of me, shout my name, and I will come to you."

Ben's smile glowed, and Ned was just as happy.

They spoke for several hours, the sun rising to banish the clouds as the three remained deep in conversation. By the time Gabriel needed to leave, they had learned more from each others' souls than any of them had shared with another. They were brothers, the closest thing each had to family walking this Earth.

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(steps on scale) omg! I lost 5 lbs! (my reviewers are starving me . . . sobs) After all, with this cool new stats thing, I know who you are . . . . (points suggestively at review button)

And I know that, according to the novelization, Van Helsing was found 7 yrs before the movie, but novelizations scare me silly, and I refused to read. It would mess up my grasp of character, anyway. As I didn't explicitly state anything in LAEVA DEI, after being corrected, I decided to go with my first instinct and I've made it 4 years between when Van Helsing was found "crawling up the steps of this church half-dead" and the movie. (stares challengingly from behind desk). (grins).


	11. Chapter 11

WARNING: The rating on this chapter is upped to R, for some fairly explicit description (no character death or sexual situations) pretty early on. If you're squeamish or can't handle dissections, I suggest you skim. While not utterly graphic, it's pretty detailed. Also, there is a derogatory racist remark near the end. This has been included solely as a means of character expansion, and does not in any way reflect the opinions of the author. All in all, this is a pretty nasty chapter, but at least we've gotten to the "action/adventure" part . . .

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Gabriel made his way down the path towards the town. Ben and Ned had gone on ahead, and he was walking alone, contemplating the morning's conversation. He shrugged his shoulders, resettling the heavy jacket and shivering at the slight chill that hit his neck.

Boxborough was a strange place. Its people, unlike those of Anna's home of Vaseria, were not openly hostile. Yet there was something in their attitude towards the three newcomers which stretched beyond xenophobia . . . and whatever that something was, it was smothering the small town.

The hunter's head snapped up. Heightened senses, strained to the limit, tingled. Gabriel's eyes narrowed. Whatever it was that had caught his attention had not been there the night before. Up until this point, the only warning he'd had was the prickling on the back of his neck, the uneasy feeling in his gut. Now, though . . . . Senses attuned to evil, continually scanning for the slightest hint of something amiss, were shouting at him. To his right, beyond the path. In the forest to the north.

One hand dipped deeply into a pocket, and emerged with a black string. Before he headed into the woods, the hunter tied the string onto a bush at the point where he stepped from the track. Carl would know what it meant, and hopefully so would Lamar. It was a trail-marking method Gabriel had mentioned, during one of the interminable nights afloat across the Atlantic.

The snow would make his trail much easier for them – or anyone else, his instinct whispered – to follow. Gabriel grimaced, but there was little he could do about it except give care to where he stepped. A sense of urgency was beating at him.

Collecting his wits and paying sharp attention to his surroundings, the hunter stepped lightly from the path and lost himself in the brush. Where he could, he stepped on exposed rock faces, but he left several clear prints behind, to his chagrin. Snow crackled underfoot, having frozen quite stiff in the cold, and he placed his feet as lightly as he could.

The strange sense of something amiss twanged through his body, and he noted that his course was on a direct path, following true north. For fifteen minutes he was led by the discordant feeling, before he stepped around a snow-laden pine and was stopped in his tracks.

The scene before his eyes brought him back to a time before the written word, before speech and thought, almost. He took a deep breath through his mouth, but there was no nausea to quell. Horrible as this was, he had seen much worse.

An animal was displayed before him. Gabriel walked carefully toward the gruesome tableau, leery about getting too close.

The carcass of what had once been a deer had been impaled through anus, with the pole spearing through the entire body and jutting from the jaws of the buck. The animal's head was forced back, the nose lifted to the sky. The hunter's thoughts whirled, and he crouched momentarily. The stick, firmly set in the ground, ensured that the animal remained in a revolting parody of an upright position, legs splayed and antlers reared back, pointing north. The pole was black with frozen blood, which stained the surrounding snow a vivid, violent crimson.

That was not all.

The animal had been meticulously skinned, and its hooves had been cut off, leaving jagged stumps and broken bone. But on closer inspection, Gabriel could not see the mercy strike across the animal's throat – and then he knew that the deer had been skinned while still alive. The carcass had frozen, perfectly preserving the exposed, pale pink musculature.

The killing strike had come later, judging from the frozen blood spattered around the gaping hole in the animal's chest cavity. Frowning at the blood marks, Gabriel drew closer in morbid fascination. What he saw made him rear back in disgust.

The animal's rib cage had been surgically hacked apart, exposing jagged rib bone as the sternum was completely cut away. The heart had been pulled out, and the hunter knew enough of proper butchering to judge that it had probably still been beating when removed. There was a copious amount of frozen blood still pooled in the wound, but bloody handprints decorated the pink muscle of the animal's body, standing out ghoulishly. They were of several sizes, and of both right and left hands. At least five different people were involved, by what he could tell from the prints, though there were probably more.

Fighting back memories evoked by the impalement, Gabriel studied the buck. The hunter's absorption in the macabre spectacle did not, however, mean that he was unaware of his surroundings.

A soft rustling in the bushes at his back had him spinning, raising a blade, but unable to prevent what happened next.

A familiar figure stumbled out of the underbrush with a grumble, and glanced up. "Oh my God," Carl gagged, steadying himself against the trunk of a frozen oak.

"Carl," Van Helsing hastened to his friend's side, trying to block the view of the mutilated animal from his sight. The friar's grey eyes were locked on the despoiled remains. "Carl!" He shook the other slightly.

Carl blinked, breathing hard. He closed his eyes and clamped a hand over his mouth.

Van Helsing gave his friend space as he vomited behind the tree at his back, scuffing snow over the mess and using more of the white stuff to clean his mouth. Carl kept his face resolutely turned away from the revolting sight, and Gabriel quietly asked him to watch for Lamar while he continued to examine the beast.

Moving around to the back of the creature, something caught on the antlers of the dead deer snagged his attention, and the hunter squinted up at it. The deer was suspended at least five feet off the ground, and so reaching the antlers would be impossible from this angle, especially if Gabriel wanted to keep their disturbance of the area minimal.

He finally determined that it was a strip of black cloth, short and tied into a loop – and then the answer hit him. A blindfold. It was a superstitious belief the spun off the maxim of "see no evil"; if the victim was unable to see the perpetrators, then the crime was never committed. Moving to the side, the wild look in the animal's brown eyes was unmistakable through the frost clouding the dulled, frozen orbs. The tattered covering must have come off when the animal was impaled – or it had been left there by whoever had slaughtered the deer.

That, more than anything else, disconcerted the hunter – whoever had done this, had committed this act with the sure knowledge of what they were doing. But the blindfold was a symbol which was more usually applied to human victims – it didn't fit.

Gabriel circled the deer once more, suddenly thankful for the cold as it meant there was no rotting stench from putrid flesh. Making sure he had seen all of it, he moved to collect Carl. The friar jumped at the light touch on his shoulder.

"Start heading back, slowly," the hunter instructed. "I'm going to wipe out our tracks."

Carl gulped, wide eyes trained suspiciously on the surrounding woods, and nodded.

The hunter made his way to the snow-laden pine tree which marked the southern end of the clearing. He edged his way under the branches and pulled out a knife, sawing off a branch as long as his arm. Out in the clearing once more, he swept the branch over the snow, obscuring the tracks he had left. Gabriel grimaced at the end result. It was obvious that someone had disturbed the clearing, but no one would be able to tell who, or how many people, had done so.

Gabriel carefully backtracked his trail, sweeping over the most obvious tracks and scuffing the rest. He paused to pull a few unraveled brown threads from a bush – a sure sign that Carl had passed through.

After a few minutes, he caught up to the friar, who had paused to wait.

"What the hell was that?" Carl swallowed, his voice high and strained.

"A sacrifice." Gabriel scowled. A particularly vengeful swipe of the branch snuffed out a deep track where his foot had broken through the snow's crust.

"Why? To what?" Carl demanded, reigning in his agitation and pushing back his hood.

"I don't know," the hunter was forced to admit. He continued wiping out their tracks, urging Carl on before him. "Don't mention this in the town."

"Whoever put it there will know someone found it," Carl pointed out. He was nervously scanning the woods as if he expected someone or something to leap out at him.

"The evidence already points to us, but I'd rather not confirm anyone's suspicions."

Carl could wait only a moment before the question burst from him. "Now what?"

"I need you to talk to people in the town. Find out about Warren Gray. Take Lamar with you, and don't go anywhere alone," Gabriel answered grimly.

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"I need you to divert the attention from me. I'm going to search through the forest around the town." Gabriel was concentrated completely on the trail and their surroundings, his response somewhat distracted.

"You think there might be more? More of those things?" Carl gaped in horror.

"Stands to reason," the hunter grunted.

Carl made his way past the last of the bushes, stepping out onto the path with a relieved sigh. Following him, Gabriel wiped out the last of the tracks and then hurled the branch as far as he could into the woods on the opposite side of the path. If it was found, it would tell the seeker no more than he or she already knew, if they were aware enough to search for it. He turned back to the friar, and his brows lifted in silent query.

Carl was craning his neck, looking all around with a concerned expression.

"What is it?" Gabriel felt compelled to ask. A sudden thought assailed him, and he turned, searching for the marker he had left to designate the point where he had left the path.

"It's well after ten, and Lamar isn't here," Carl answered. "We didn't meet up with him in the woods, either."

"He might have gone on to the Widow's to look for us," Gabriel suggested, but the feeling of foreboding that had been creeping up his spine all morning didn't go away.

The look Carl shot him was skeptical, but he unhappily concurred that it was possible. In full agreement the two men started immediately towards the Widow's home, a short walk away. They had barely arrived, however, before Mathilde rushed from the house.

"You must go to the village!" she cried, wringing her hands in distress. "Your friend – Robert Ancell has taken issue with him."

Ancell. Gabriel turned and started back to the village without second thought, Carl less than a step behind him. Lamar's comments of the previous night snuck to the forefront of Gabriel's mind, and he hastened his stride. As they drew closer, noise reached them – the noise of a crowd. A few dozen voices, raised in raucous jeering, filtered through the screen of trees. Gabriel broke into a run, long legs devouring the distance as he sprinted toward the clamor.

The crowd had gathered at the far west end of town, in an open field not far from a small windmill that had seen better days. The hunter raced through the empty town, the friar right behind him slipping and swearing on the slick, packed snow. He didn't stop on reaching the edges of the crowd, instead pushing his way through to the center.

Lamar and Ancell had been brought to fisticuffs. At a glance it was clear that the Jerusalemite was no match for the blacksmith's greater bulk and power, and was instead using his slighter size and quickness to his advantage. Lamar dodged and ducked, veering away from the larger man and preventing him from landing a solid hit. Ancell, however, was more cunning than he had been given credit for, planning his moves with the precision of a chess player.

Gabriel and Carl, seeing the intensity of the fight, paused lest they inadvertently distract the fighters and turn the tide in favor of one opponent. The friar remained concentrated on the conflict, but Gabriel's eyes took in the strange actions of the townspeople. Now that the fight had actually started, they were slowly falling silent, scrutinizing each move without comment. The eerie silence spread, and Van Helsing knew without a doubt that they expected Ancell to win.

Someone tugged on the hunter's sleeve. He glanced down to see Ben, eyes wide, glancing from him to the fight. "What are you -"

Before the boy could finish, the noise of flesh smacking into flesh caught the hunter's attention. Ancell landed a solid punch on Lamar, throwing the other back several feet. The small, dark man shook his head from his prone position, pushing himself to his elbows. Ancell made no move to approach him, however.

Gabriel's eyes narrowed, taking in the lay of the land, and then he was struck with a horrible realization.

A sickening crack echoed through the silence as Lamar moved to get to his feet. The small man froze.

At that moment, the ice beneath him gave way. The frozen millpond had been covered in the last snowfall, the snow insulating the ice, weakening it. Lamar tumbled into the freezing water with a shout. Gabriel ran forward, roughly shouldering Ancell out of his way.

"I'll go!" came a high, young voice from behind them.

Gabriel turned, and for a moment tried to deny what his eyes were telling him. It was fruitless, however, and the only choice. Ben was the lightest person near – the ice would never support someone of the hunter's weight, and if Lamar had gone through, Carl would be in serious peril if he tried.

Losing no time, the hunter nodded. "Carl!"

The friar understood immediately.

Moving to the ice, Ben lay on his belly and slithered quickly out to the hole through which Lamar had disappeared. He started as Lamar burst from the depths, floundering and choking before being dragged down once more. Carl grabbed the boy's ankles, lying on his own stomach, being similarly anchored by the hunter.

Ben carefully edged closer to the hole, and Lamar exploded from the surface of the water once more, sputtering and gasping desperately for air. Reaching out, Ben tried to grab his sleeve and missed. "Lamar!" he called, getting the panic-stricken man's attention. Lamar flailed at the water, reaching for the boy.

"Got him!" Ben's strained voice called.

Immediately Gabriel and Carl dragged the two off the ice and back to the safety of the bank. They didn't stop pulling until they had reached solid ground, and in that moment Gabriel realized that none of the villagers had stepped forward at all to render assistance. Fury welled up inside him, but he clamped down on the emotion.

"Carl, I want you to get Lamar back to the Widow's," Gabriel said quietly. The wet man was freezing, the water on him slowly solidifying to ice in the bitter cold. He needed to be warmed, immediately, but Gabriel no longer trusted the villagers and refused to split his team any more.

The friar nodded, working quickly to strip Lamar of his wet outer garments. Gabriel shrugged off his coat and the outer of the two sweaters he was wearing, silently insisting that all the wet garments be removed. He purposefully positioned himself between his shivering companion and the bulk of the crowd. Worry was building up – Lamar's lips and fingernails were a deep purple, almost black, and ice was forming in his hair, short as it was.

"Ben, take Ned and go with them, please," Gabriel whispered to the boy. Ned had bounded through the crowd upon hearing Ben's shout, and now stood possessively next to the towheaded youth. Ben nodded, eyes wide.

The three stood, Lamar hunched and shivering miserably, and Carl urged the other to walk as fast as he could. As they rounded the outside of the crowd, Gabriel turned on Ancell, radiating anger in every line of his being.

The blacksmith met the glare head-on with one of his own.

"What," the hunter demanded icily, "did you think you were doing?"

"Ridding myself of a _problem_," Ancell coolly enunciated each word.

Gabriel took a step forward, and Ancell drew himself up in preparation. Another fight seemed inevitable; at that moment, however, Derek Hastings appeared in the crowd. "What is going on here?"

The authoritative question rang through the field, and shockingly, Ancell backed down. Gabriel's face twisted into a frown. "Mayor Hastings," he said shortly.

"Derek," Ancell rumbled. "Van Helsing and I were having a small difference of opinion."

The mayor came forward, impeccable in appearance, his bearing oozing calm control and good-will. The townspeople gave way before him, beginning to drift off as he spoke softly to a few on his way towards Ancell and Van Helsing.

"Now," he smiled, flashing white teeth at the two men. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"Your blacksmith," the hunter grated, "for no reason he cares to explain, took issue with the presence of one of my friends on the path to Widow Austin's home. After dragging Lamar back here, he initiated a fight which ended with my friend going through the ice of the millpond, putting his life in serious danger."

Hastings had tensed throughout the grim recitation of events, but on hearing Lamar's name, he relaxed slightly. Gabriel's sharp eyes noted the motion, and he wondered at it.

"I see." Hastings appeared to think a moment. By this time, the three men were the only ones left outside. "Robert?"

"The little darkie -"

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Gabriel snapped.

The mayor and blacksmith exchanged a look loaded with meaning. Without further ado, Ancell grunted at the two men before promptly turning his back and striding away.

Hastings moved toward the hunter as Gabriel glared at Ancell's retreating figure. Placing a companionable arm around his shoulder, the mayor was oblivious to the scorching look of disgust Van Helsing leveled on him.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to forgive poor Robert," Hastings began smoothly, diplomatically nudging the hunter into stride next to him. Gabriel was _not_ pleased. "He was born in Mississippi, and was nineteen at the start of the war between the states. He joined up for love of home, and survived to see Lee's surrender. He's held a resentment for the black man ever since, I'm afraid."

"I'm sure you can see that his discriminations don't quite apply in this situation, Mayor," Gabriel drawled, nearly turning the title into an insult.

To his relief, Hastings' arm fell away from his shoulders. The mayor faced him now with a sudden cool indifference. "I have no other explanation for his behavior, Mr. Van Helsing," he responded with a careless shrug. "The war has left deep marks, and deeper prejudices, on Robert Ancell. I'm sorry he felt the need to take those out on your friend. I can promise it won't happen again."

Gabriel refrained from giving voice to his dark thoughts, and managed to accept the Mayor's apology with a semblance of gratitude before the other man took his leave of the hunter. Finding himself the last person in the deserted town, Van Helsing glanced around the dead central square. A chill breeze blew past him, and for the first time he felt the lack of the outer gear which he had gladly given to Lamar. Suppressing a shudder, he turned his face east, his feet on the road to the Widow's secluded home – and his friends.

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(grins at reviewers) . . . (pops review in mouth) . . . . (chews thoughtfully) . . . (is struck by inspiration) . . . (starts typing) . . . Thank you for helping the creative process!

Note: Anna's hometown of Vaseria courtesy The Scary Kitty.


	12. Chapter 12

"How is he?"

Mathilde smiled reassuringly at Carl. Ben and Ned had dragged the straw tick down from the loft, placing it as close to the fire as they dared. Lamar had been stripped of his wet clothing, briskly dried and bundled in blankets. Mathilde was gently but relentlessly tipping hot soup down his throat by the spoonful.

The Jerusalemite's body was cold to the touch, and he was breathing slowly and shallowly. Lamar looked around in confusion, weakly clutching the blankets to himself. "We need to warm him from both inside and out," she murmured softly. "Ben, are those bricks ready?"

Ben carefully touched one of the bricks Mathilde had placed inside the hearth when the youth had rushed into the house, word of the uproar tumbling from his lips. "Ouch!"

Ben grinned, sticking his finger in his mouth, and nodded.

Mathilde used metal prongs to pull out the six bricks, wrapping them quickly in rags and snugging them inside Lamar's many blankets. "You must drink," she urged the small man.

Lamar sipped obediently, his unfocused gaze traveling aimlessly around the room.

"He doesn't seem to know we're here," Carl commented worriedly.

"It's common," Mathilde answered sadly. "He's been through a terrible shock."

"Why isn't he shivering?" Ben observed, concern shining from his eyes as he moved to sit on one of the table's benches. Ned had curled up at Lamar's back, bracing the man and adding his own heat to try to warm the frozen Jerusalemite.

"He's too cold," came a quiet voice from the door.

Carl twisted, and Ben looked up. The hunter had entered unnoticed, and was shivering slightly. Gabriel shifted towards the warmth emanating from the fireplace, relaxing into the heat.

"What happened after we left?" Carl hissed.

"Mayor Hastings showed up."

If not for the dryness of his tone, Carl might have believed Gabriel's nonchalant façade.

"Then he resolved your disagreement with Robert." Mathilde's placid certainty had a confused look rising on Ben's face. The woman rose from her crouched position next to Lamar, gliding to the stove and the pots bubbling on it. A warning shake of the head from the hunter, however, compelled the boy to make an excuse, pull on his coat, and head out the door.

"No, actually," the hunter continued.

Mathilde's face never lost its composure. "Well then I'm sure he must have had his reasons," she explained complacently.

"Mrs. Austin," Gabriel fell back on the characteristic bluntness that had, until recently, been tempered with tact. "Can you tell me how your husband died?"

Her motions stilled for a moment, her hand faltering as she stirred the boiling soup. "I don't understand what that has to do with this discussion," she countered frostily.

Carl winced, shooting the hunter a glance that said, _be careful!_ Gabriel didn't meet his eyes, staring deeply into the flames. "We know that Warren Gray was interested in Anthony Austin's death," Carl soothed, hesitantly trading glances between his friend and hostess. "We'd like to know why he found it so fascinating."

The widow turned on him, eyes sparking with anger. "That terrible man was fixated on Tony's death. I don't know why he couldn't leave it alone, always pushing, demanding – upsetting us all. My husband died in an accident." She trembled with the force of some unnamed emotion – anger? Grief? "That's all it was. A horrible accident."

"What kind of accident?" The hunter pushed for an answer, eyes intent on Mathilde. She met his gaze for only a moment before shifting back to the pot.

"A hunting accident," she murmured, weakly. Her head came up, determination spilling from her in waves as she poured the contents of the pot into a mug. She glared at the hunter. "I would prefer," she clipped out the words harshly, "if you would leave my home."

The hunter shrugged, the careless twitch of one shoulder.

Carl interfered. "Would you mind if I remained with my friend?"

Gabriel stared. He had known Carl was good – but this was almost unbelievable. Innocent gray eyes peeked shyly out from under auburn bangs, framing a humble, hopeful expression that made the friar look about twelve. Mathilde visibly softened towards the sweet visage, and Gabriel had to bring ruthless control to bear in order to repress an ungracious snort of laughter.

"Of course, dear. This young man is quite ill, and I'm sure having a friend nearby to help would be greatly appreciated." Her eyes cooled noticeably as they fastened on Gabriel. "I thank you for your help," she continued. "But I just don't have the means to support so many houseguests. I'm sure the Pardoes would be agreeable to your taking your friend's place in their home, until he is well."

Gabriel inclined his head to her, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. "As you will, madam." The situation had played out perfectly, better than he had hoped, even.

At that moment, Ben returned from outside, clutching a large armful of firewood and dusted lightly with snow. "It's started again," he commented breathlessly. His eyes flickered to Ned as he deposited the wood by the fireplace with care. Silent messages danced between them.

Gabriel stood, and crossed the room to climb up to the loft, intent on collecting his belongings. Mere moments later he returned with his rucksack, which he left by Carl. "I'll collect Lamar's things from the Pardoes'," he offered. Without waiting for a response from anyone, the hunter strode from the room.

The walk was cold and lengthy, but Gabriel's mind turned on thoughts of the animal he had discovered in the forest. Chasing hard on the heels of that came everything he had ever learned and seen about impalement – and those thoughts were decidedly grim. When he realized that his irritable glower was making some nearby townspeople nervous, the hunter expended the effort to wipe his expression blank, and turned his thoughts to the confrontation by the millpond. He resisted the urge to scowl, rolling his eyes instead.

The man who appeared on the Pardoes' doorstep was markedly less angry, after an effort of will. He knocked, and was accepted into the kitchen. After being offered both a seat and tea, politely refusing the latter, Gabriel began to speak. Calmly, he explained the situation, finishing with, "I'd like to bring Lamar's things to him. He'll be much better off resting far from the noise of the town."

"Of course." Mrs. Pardoe, a plump and matronly woman, immediately agreed.

"I was also hoping, if you and your husband have no objections, that I might be able to take Lamar's place in your hospitality." To the eyes of the Pardoes, the young man in front of them, for all his dangerous reputation and skills, seemed slightly embarrassed about the perceived intrusion.

A slight hesitation, and a worried look, passed between the married couple. The sharp-eyed hunter, however, effected not to notice. "I'd not strain the Widow's hospitality if I can avoid it," he admitted. "However, I would not intrude on you either. I'll speak to Mayor Hastings immediately, and -"

"That won't be necessary," Kevin Pardoe interrupted with a tight smile. "My wife and I are glad to fulfill our obligation to our fellows from Rome."

_Not exactly welcoming_, the hunter mused. "You have my deepest thanks," is what he said instead.

Louisa gave him a warm, yet distracted smile. "I'll take you to the room, then, shall I?"

"If you would be so kind," the hunter murmured.

Kevin grunted something about needing to check on the stock in the barn, and the three disbanded. Gabriel followed the much shorter woman up a flight of stairs, to a bedroom located at the front of the house. "This was where Lamar slept, the poor young man. I do hope he'll be alright?"

Gabriel murmured something to that effect, mindlessly soothing while he took in the surroundings with a careful eye. The room was small, containing only a bed, washstand, dresser and closet. The window was curtained with a heavy red cloth that matched the bed's wine-colored quilt, and looked out over the street. The meetinghouse was just visible over the roof of the General Store.

"I'll just freshen the bedclothes for you," Louisa smiled again as she scuttled to the bed, efficiently stripping the sheets into one bundle. "You collect your friend's things and be off now. I'll have everything ready by the time you come back," she assured him.

Gabriel's usual brisk efficiency served him well, and in moments he had left the house, returning on his way to the Widow's home. The walk seemed shorter this time, for an idea was teasing at the back of his mind, flirting with consciousness. As he grasped for it, it darted from realization, and the hunter resolved to let it be for now.

The Widow's house was quiet, Ben's presence notable from its absence, and the cause was clear soon enough.

"When did the shivering start?" Gabriel was a bit concerned at the violence of the small man's shaking. Carl looked upset as well.

"Not long after you left."

Gabriel glanced around. "And where's Ben?"

_Gone to fetch Dr. Lamborne_, Ned supplied helpfully at the same time that Carl said, "He ran to get the doctor."

Gabriel touched his head, momentarily befuddled by the echo. "How long has he been gone?"

A low cough cut off anything Carl might have said, and was followed by two more. Mathilde was frowning anxiously at the man she was trying to dose with willow-bark tea. "When did _that_ start?" Gabriel asked worriedly.

"Just now," Carl replied. In a moment he was sitting next to Lamar, holding a cloth to the other man's mouth as the Jerusalemite coughed and hacked. The coughing soon abated, to be replaced by wheezing gasps.

"He's burning up," Mathilde fretted, the back of one hand resting lightly against Lamar's forehead. "Where _is_ the doctor?"

"Here!" Ben gasped, bursting through the door with a red-faced, middle-aged man not far behind. The man was finely dressed, and wasted no time moving immediately to Lamar's side. Carl was edged out of the way until he was standing next to Gabriel. The two watched a brisk examination take place, the doctor firing questions at Mathilde. Soon, orders were lashing through the air and Ben and Mathilde were rushing about filling them as quickly as possible.

"Come on," Gabriel said quietly, as the two sprang into action. "There's nothing more we can do here."

Gabriel led Carl up to the loft and out of the way. "I'll be staying with the Pardoes; they've agreed to let Lamar switch with me. I want you to stay here tonight – I'll give an excuse to Schoen."

"What? Why?"

"I want to see how he reacts to the news of what happened," Gabriel said grimly. "I noticed that he wasn't in the crowd this morning. And I want someone I trust here to watch after Lamar and Ben. Just for tonight."

"Speaking of this morning," Carl said hesitantly, "What do you make of – of that animal? What – what was done to it?"

Carl was looking a bit ashen, having gone unhealthily pale at the memory of the staked deer.

"It was impaled," Gabriel slowly explained, memory swirling in his eyes. "Impalement first was used as a method of torture in ancient Persia. There are carvings that record the deaths of criminals and enemies of the Persians, and Herodotus later wrote of it in the Behistun inscription. The Romans replaced it with crucifixion." A grimace twisted the dark features, painful memory catching at his heart. "It started becoming more . . . popular in eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, in Siberia with Ivan the Terrible – and in Transylvania."

Carl swallowed.

Gabriel's voice deepened in anger. "After he was murdered, they called him Vlad Ţepeş, or Vlad the Impaler, because that was the method of execution he favored. In life, however, his name was Vladislous Dracula."

Carl froze, trembling ever so slightly. Connections fizzled inside his mind, but the question died upon his lips, murdered by the terror welling up inside.

"He is dead," Gabriel snapped harshly, seeing the fear in his friend's eyes. Both of them knew that death was small consolation; the man they spoke of had evaded it once, enabled others to do the same. "He has failed at his one chance, and the Light-Bringer will not grant him another." It was said with utter certainty.

"How do you know?" Carl whispered raggedly. "He has made one covenant with the devil -"

"I _know_."

And there was no denying the terrible certainty of knowledge and experience that burned with those hazel eyes, lighting golden fires from within.

"I am the Left Hand," Gabriel whispered, the affirmation nearly lost in the space between them. "I _know_ death." His voice raised, the emotion slipping away almost effortlessly. "When Dracula made his deal with the Light-Bringer, he abandoned his soul to the darkness to be allowed to repossess his own body. For his sins in life, the Light-Bringer favored him, and so he was granted more power than any other. But his second death was absolute, destroying both body and soul. There is _no _resurrection from that. He is gone. Forever, if I dare say it."

Carl released a deep breath. "But then how would they -"

"Impalement," Gabriel forced himself to continue normally, "continued for a time in Sweden, surviving until the past century in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as a method of execution. While Dracula is the most notable person to have used this . . . torture, he is by no means the only one," the hunter finished with distaste. "It was, in fact, quite common."

Carl looked ill at the thought. "You said – you said it was . . . a sacrifice?"

Gabriel nodded grimly, fingering one of his rotating blades that had popped into his hand. "It was skinned alive," he muttered. "Blindfolded."

Carl caught the unspoken question. "Why would it be blindfolded?"

The hunter stood, pacing across the floor of the loft, leaving Carl sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I don't know," he admitted.

"But you think there are more," Carl was turning the information over in his head.

"I'm going to look now," Gabriel affirmed. The noises from downstairs had calmed, and they could hear Mathilde speaking lowly with the doctor. Lamar's coughing had stopped for now, but his breathing was no easier, audible even up the stairs.

"Then I'll reread Gray's journal notes, and ask the Widow if she can recall anything more," Carl muttered, blue eyes thoughtful.

The two men walked quietly down the stairs to rejoin the others.

"Dr. Lamborne," Carl stepped forward, a hand out. "How is Lamar?"

The doctor spoke, his voice somewhat high and perilously squeaky, though his words were hardly laughable. "Not too well, I'm afraid. He's been left with a serious case of pneumonia from his dip in the millpond. He's going to be quite unwell, but luckily we got the hypothermia under control. I've instructed Ben and the Widow as to his care."

"Thank you," Gabriel said when the man paused. He glanced meaningfully at Carl. "I'm afraid I must be going – would you mind very much informing Carl as to Lamar's care? Thank you." He gave the other no chance to respond, tugging the rim of his hat respectfully before slipping out the door. He didn't bother with the path this time, striking out instead into the woods to the south. He took care not to leave too much sign of his passing, but gave himself over to his senses, and the scent of darkness on the wind.

Left at the Widow's, Carl could do nothing but listen avidly to the doctor's stern, yet shrill, lecture. Lamar had inhaled water, and probably mucus from the lungs, and had developed an infection. He was bedridden, and needed to rest and drink lots of fluids. The doctor had given the Widow a packet of powder for daily treatment – one spoonful in a cup of steaming water. Lamar was to breathe the fumes, as they would help clear his lungs.

Carl personally thought that the treatment the doctor prescribed was rubbish; pneumonia was a difficult, deadly disease. But Lamar was young and healthy, and had not been in the water long. He had better chances to recover than most.

While he waited for the hunter to return, he reread the mission reports Gray had sent to the Vatican. There were seventeen in all, dated every other day from the nineteenth of December, 1888, until the last missive – January 23, 1889. Though each of the letters contained a dark undertone, to his frustration Carl could not find anything they had not already seen for themselves. The people of Boxborough were secretive, clannish and protective of their mayor and privacy. While they treated their counterparts from Rome with awe and respect, and acted as if they welcomed heroes from the front lines, there was still something stilted about their welcome. They were too thirsty for information on the fight, too ready to listen to stories that were mostly told round campfires, or to scare small children. From the tone of the letters, Carl got the impression that Gray suspected something more, something which he did not write. The letters were contrary, at times, and somewhat frenetic. In a bout of irritation with the missing member of the Order, Carl enlisted the Widow's aid.

"I remember him quite well," she answered, after he had begged her to describe the man to him, as he could not understand the other from his reports at all. "He was shorter than I, but taller than you, with hair the color of mouse fur." She snorted at her own uncomplimentary description. "He asked questions many times, as if the answers would change, or as if he wanted to be doubly sure. He nagged me, and persistently made himself a nuisance about the town, once his original mission here was fulfilled."

"His original mission?" Carl asked curiously.

Mathilde nodded, her dark eyes thoughtful. "Every year after New Years we receive visitors from Rome," she explained. "They examine the runnings of the town, hear any complaints against matters and laws of the Order that may have arisen during the year. They take stock of our supplies and send orders for replenishment if we are in need of something we can't make ourselves. That rarely happens," she added proudly. "Usually, there is a census taken, and we are appraised of the latest news, and changes within the Order. That is how we knew of your recent victory against the beast that attacked the Holy City," she explained.

Carl kept his eyes from narrowing with difficulty. Was she lying, or had she been lied to? Warren Gray had left for Boxborough during the first week of December; the trip had taken longer than anticipated due to foul weather. The business with the Spear, to which she was undoubtedly referring, had taken place during mid and late November, bleeding into early December; but Warren Gray had not been in Vatican City at that time. According to Jinette, Gray had been sent to Milan for all of October and November to work on a project in one of the few entirely Order-run churches in Italy. Even the Vatican itself was not fully staffed and controlled by the Order. His exposure to a society composed completely of members of the Order had been the deciding factor, the Order's former head had told him, for sending Gray to Boxborough.

"I see," was all he said.

"He was a flighty man," the Widow shrugged unconcernedly. "I was glad when he went home."

They spoke until the evening meal, Ben tending Lamar with an ear to the conversation. The Widow excused herself to begin preparing supper, leaving Carl to ponder in silence what he had learned, and resolving to speak to Ben in the morning.

It was after the evening meal when Van Helsing returned, chilled to the bone with the light of discovery in his eyes. He politely waited, eating lightly himself, until the Widow had turned in for the night. Carl promised to wake her later to see to Lamar, before he turned to the hunter. "You found more?"

Gabriel nodded grimly.

"Where?"

"Do you have a pencil? Paper?"

Carl rolled a pencil he had been using over to the hunter, flipping over one of the sheets with Gray's reports on it. Gabriel drew a box. "The Widow's house," he explained briefly.

"Astounding likeness," Carl agreed cheekily.

His impertinence was rewarded with a raised brow, and a squiggly line drifting toward the left of the page. "The path," Gabriel drawled.

"Of course."

Gabriel snorted, and turned his attention to the page. With a dot, he marked in the impaled deer Carl had seen, before he moved to the right – eastward – and further north. Another dot went almost directly north of the house. Another went further east, roughly level with the first dot. Two more dots, both to the south of the house, one to the east and another to the west. Gabriel lightly tapped the northmost dot. "All the others were bucks," he said quietly. "This one was a doe, and with fawn as well."

"There were two animals?" Carl ventured.

Gabriel shook his head. The fawn had not been born, then.

The two men stared at the five dots, before the memory of something he had read hit Carl like a bolt from a crossbow. He snatched the pencil right out of Gabriel's hand, and began to draw.

"What are you -"

Two sets of eyes widened in surprise.

When straight lines were drawn, connecting the five sacrifices represented on paper, the dots were shown to be the corner points of a pentagram – and when each dot was connected to every other one, the figure formed a pentacle. A pentacle centered on the Widow's home.

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Candy to all my reviewers, some of whom are far too perceptive for my piece of mind – reviews really are my ambrosia and nectar, and they keep me typing. Thanks for each and every one.


	13. Chapter 13

Carl was aimlessly turning the crude map in circles. It was almost midnight. Gabriel had departed not long after they had discovered the pentacle, explaining that he didn't want to bother the Pardoes. He was trying to keep their guard down, and Carl could see that he was downplaying his own importance to lull them into giving information away. He doubted it would work; and Gabriel's wry grin as he explained his motives to him told the friar that his friend didn't hold much hope for the plan either.

Lamar's breathing was raspy and loud, disconcerting in the dark silence. Carl swept the papers into a pile, shoving the drawing into the middle. He sat by Lamar, checking for a fever; the dark-skinned man's face was flushed and hot. He was sweating, his sleep deep and his body limp.

Carl remained awake for another full hour, sitting by Lamar and thinking. The two men were not friends – they knew that they could work well together as colleagues, but friendship was a far-off goal at this point. Lamar was still unaccountably wary of Gabriel, but they had managed to put aside their differences now to present an undivided front to the people of Boxborough. Things were clearer, now that Lamar was ill.

The soft chime of a clock had Carl searching for the time, and he could only blink with tiredness when he found it. He roused Mathilde, and then managed to fall asleep himself once she as awake.

The next morning Carl blearily joined the others at the table, not feeling up to starting a stringent conversation so early. He had plans, and several people to visit.

His first stop was to Schoen, to whom he apologized for not showing up the previous night. Disconcerted by the man's grudging praise for his loyalty to the Order and his companions, he quickly retreated, deciding to find Gabriel before anything else happened. He couldn't help but feel uncomfortable around his host at times; especially when the fever-bright eyes turned on him in appraisal of his actions.

When he finally found him, the hunter was sitting on the steps of the church, and seemed to be thinking. The cold, Carl thought with a mental sneer, seemed not to bother him overmuch.

"Van Helsing?"

The hunter jumped, his head coming up at the sound of his name. "Carl."

"Is something wrong?" the friar immediately stepped forward, lowering his voice. Gabriel's hazel eyes were distant, as if he was seeing something far away. His entire body seemed to be listening.

Gabriel shook his head. "Two days ago you asked me if I sensed anything as we were approaching Boxborough," he said tiredly.

"And?"

"And I didn't. There was nothing untoward that I could tell. Yesterday, I sensed something strange near the Widow's home, and we found the deer. But it was barely anything. This morning -"

"This morning?" Carl prompted when he realized Gabriel had become lost in inner musings.

"This town is awash in darkness," Gabriel replied brusquely. "Before, there was something here – so faint as to be negligible. It was everywhere – but more of a feeling than any sense of evil."

Carl frowned. "As if you were sensing the mood of the town?" he asked doubtfully.

Gabriel snorted. "Not quite, but something like that. Now, though – there is a darkness everywhere I look, lurking throughout."

The hunter sighed in frustration and stood abruptly. As he gained his feet, he froze for a moment, his eyes closing, and he reached out with one hand to steady himself on the railing at his side.

"Gabriel?"

The hunter's eyes squinted open, and he blinked. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?" Carl asked. He had never seen the hunter reel before – not even when facing the overpowering taint of one of the Fallen. Surely whatever shadow had fallen over Boxborough was nowhere near as puissant as the havoc that had been wreaked on the Holy City by Beelzebul. The possibility caused a shiver to rip down Carl's spine.

"I'm fine. Why?"

It seemed unimportant, and Carl hesitated. There were familiar circles under Gabriel's eyes – he had not slept well, then, and Carl was reluctant to question him if the nightmares had returned. Stirring up the subject tended to make the hunter quiet and distant.

"Never mind," he blurted, noting that the hunter was giving him a strange, confused look. "Pentacles," he rapidly switched the subject, and Gabriel shook his head in amusement. As they passed from the churchyard, Carl began to speak.

"From sources that I've read," he said, ignoring the hunter's put-upon expression, "Pentacles can be used by magicians for the binding and summoning of demons, though this happens rarely. The five-pointed star is representative of many things. Its widespread mathematical use -" an inelegant snort sounded from his right, "is most likely not the reason for its construction here," he finished hurriedly. "The Romans used to assign a letter to each of the points of the five-pointed star. Thus they would be able to spell out the Latin word for heath -"

"_Salūs_," Gabriel interrupted with a grin. The smile faded, however, with his next words. "The pentacle was used in early Christianity to signify the five wounds of the Christ," he continued. "More recently, it has also been called the Morning Star."

"The Morning Star?" Carl asked excitedly. "That reference appears twice in the Bible – once in the New Testament, when it refers to Christ himself, and then in the Book of Isaiah, when it is used to refer to Lucifer." The friar's attitude dampened with these words, an expression of exasperation melding onto his features. "But I don't see -"

The hunter's mind was working again, and his question cut Carl off midstream. The question, however, was worth the indignity of the interruption. "What else do you recall about that first bit – pentacles in use for the summoning of demons?"

A frown traced its way over Carl's face, the grey eyes narrowing as he poked through the recesses of memory. "Not much," he admitted upon a short reflection. "As I recall, the magician would construct two pentacles. He would stand inside one for protection. The other would be used to contain the summoned demon. Each would have specific marked sigils, assuring that the demon would be properly bound under the magician's dominion. If something went wrong – the pentacle was not properly inscribed, or there was a mistake in the sigils, which were written in dozens of ancient tongues – there could be very grave consequences indeed."

"Such as?"

"Death was probably the most pleasant," Carl replied dryly. Gabriel grimaced, but the friar didn't flinch. Reading about such horrors was one thing, and the print carefully distanced him from the emotions and details, no matter how descriptive the text. Seeing it in person, however, would be something else entirely. And as that thought manifested, Carl winced.

"Anyway," he continued briskly, "Such things take years of study, and are definitely of the darker arts practiced by men."

"So if it was going on here, we would have heard about it through the yearly reports." Gabriel didn't sound certain of this at all.

"Probably." Neither did Carl.

The hunter hissed between his teeth. "How's Lamar?" he asked eventually.

Carl bit the inside of his cheek. "Well," he mulled over the inquiry, noting the number of people had increased as they walked slowly past the stores. "He's ill, with pneumonia. He's young and strong, but he will need time to recover." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he leant closer. "Why don't you – you know," he urged.

"What?"

"You know!" Carl hissed pointedly.

"Carl," Gabriel growled in warning, his patience clearly at an end. "What?"

"Heal him," the friar finally demanded, somewhat pettishly.

Gabriel blinked at him. "It doesn't work that way," he said after a short pause.

"What?" It was Carl's turn to use the word.

Gabriel sighed, bringing up one ungloved hand to rake through his tangled locks before shoving it back into his pocket. His hat was missing, today. "I don't interfere more than I must," he explained vaguely. "Michael's injury was something that should never have been – it was not part of the design. Therefore, I could fix it. I had to, in a sense."

"But -"

"But what?" Gabriel countered gently. "It was a fight, though I will grant you that it was probably neither fair nor justly provoked. There was nothing unnatural about it that would warrant my calling undue attention to us."

Carl threw his hands up, giving in.

They continued to walk, each absorbed in his own thoughts, until a familiar figure fell into step with them.

"Mayor," Carl greeted the other man warmly, remembering their first meeting and trying to banish his suspicions so as not to rouse the other's attention.

"Good day, Carl!" Hastings, dressed impeccably in a suit overlaid with a greatcoat, his brown hair covered with a fur hat and hands hidden inside black leather gloves, extended his enthusiasm in an equally warm welcome. "I do hope that your friend is better?"

Gabriel was notoriously silent. Seeing that he would get no help from his friend, Carl took control of the conversation. "Ah, he is quite ill, I'm afraid," he replied carefully.

"Well, that's not too surprising when you consider how cold it is out here," Hastings countered jovially. "Not the time for a dip in the pond, that's for certain. But Lamar is a young man, and doubtless he'll be well in time, with proper rest."

Though the words were nearly the same ones he himself had spoken, they seemed to ring false from the other man's lips. Carl scrounged up a smile, hoping he didn't look as perturbed as he felt by the Mayor's easy dismissal of the true gravity of the situation. He glanced at the hunter, who wasn't bothering to hide his distrustful scowl. A glare from Carl had the other smoothing his features to diplomatic impassiveness. Just in time.

"What do you think, Mr. Van Helsing?" The mayor turned to Gabriel, unexpected cunning shining briefly in his eyes.

"As you said," Van Helsing replied with determined cordiality. "Lamar is very ill, but the doctor saw him immediately. With rest and care, he has a good chance of recovering."

"There!" Hastings announced, cheerfulness back in his tone. "I'm certain all will be well." Here, he flashed them a grin, showing very white teeth. "But there was another reason I wanted to speak to you," he told them. "There's a meeting scheduled for tonight."

"So soon after the last?" Carl interjected smoothly. "I wouldn't have thought -"

"Ah, that was a bit of an emergency meeting," Hastings supplied confidentially. "There were some troubling matters arising between members of the community that needed to be dealt with – it does happen every so often, especially during winter when the citizens are boxed in a great deal of the time. It wears on the nerves, and tempers stretch thin," he sighed with a resigned smile. "It happens nearly every year, almost like clockwork." His laugh invited them to join him. "As it so happens, tonight is the regular meeting time, and I simply thought that you would like to join us."

"That is gracious of you," Carl stalled for time. A discreet nod from Gabriel had him exercising his nonexistent diplomatic skills. He was a scientist, a scholar. Not a politician, he thought grumpily. "We'd be happy to attend."

Hastings' smile didn't dim for a moment. "Well, I'm very pleased to hear it," he enthused. "Now, I do have some pressing matters to address, but I hope to see you both tonight. Good day!"

The two echoed his farewell as he left them, jaunting briskly away without a backward glance.

"What do you think?"

"I think he's a political monster," Gabriel huffed in irritation.

Carl rolled his eyes. "About the meeting?"

"I think you should go."

"Good." Then he registered what the hunter had said. "Wait, me? What about you?"

Gabriel's eyes were focused outward as he replied. "I'm going to beg off, give an excuse to the Pardoes."

"Why?" Carl asked sharply. He was confident of his ability to handle the situation on his own, but he wanted to know backup was nearby if he needed it.

"Because there's something wrong," Gabriel finally turned to face him head-on for the first time that morning. Hazel burned into gray as the hunter locked eyes with Carl. "There was no darkness in this town when we arrived – there was nothing yesterday or last night, even. But this morning – the town is wallowing in it. It's not evil – just dark. But there's a distinct scent of something malign hovering in the air. And I want to find out what it is," he finished.

Carl pretended not to see the uneasiness in the other's form, masking his own with difficulty. "All right," he said quietly. "When did Hastings say the meeting was?"

"He didn't," Gabriel smiled.

"You don't seem disappointed," Carl observed.

"It gives us an excuse to strike up conversation with a few of the townspeople," the hunter explained confidently.

And Carl understood. The two men appeared to amiably part ways in front of Kellaway's Woodworks, where there were pieces of furniture on display. Carl spoke to Hannah Everard, Caleb Grogan, Kate Smytheson, and Tyler and Eric Hastings, the Mayor's sons. After having it repeatedly confirmed that the meeting would start at six that evening, sharp, he gained a somewhat fuller picture of Warren Gray. Most of the women said that he had been nice enough, conducting his business quickly and efficiently. He had been a bit scattered, sometimes asking individuals the same question several times, and could be persistently pesky at times. The men were somewhat less kindly, describing him as bumbling and annoying, and lacking in intelligence to boot. Gray had been made angry and miserable by the weather, and at long last had headed home, to the marked relief of the townspeople.

He circled the town, speaking in turn with the baker, Hiram Payne, and Ancell's apprentice Luke Rosenthal, before becoming embroiled in a discussion in the General Store that turned out to be quite enlightening. Especially when he diplomatically asked about the death of Anthony Austin, as he did not, Carl claimed, want to say anything to inadvertently upset the widow. His hesitant concern yielded fruitful results, and a bevy of information about the deceased.

He met up with Van Helsing in front of Rachel and Jennifer Frobisher's store around three that afternoon, and together they completed the picture of Warren Gray.

"He seems to have been a flighty, unpredictable, suspicious and somewhat paranoid man if we go by what the villagers say," Carl sighed. The two were edging their way between the Frobisher sisters' seamstress business, and **Payne's Baked Goods** next door. "It casts doubt on what he implied was occurring here. Which is definitely something – but it seems clear even Gray didn't know exactly what."

They reached the end of the tiny alley, and Gabriel spied an empty bench propped against the back of the seamstress' building. They sat, momentarily collecting themselves.

Carl glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand; he had taken to carrying Gray's mission reports with him for easy reference. This one was one of the first. "_The people of Boxborough, while welcoming enough, seem somewhat different than I had expected. They treat me as warily as any outsider, which I find strange for this place is one in which neither our purpose nor our mission are concealed, even from the children. Derek Hastings, the 'mayor' of this town, is quite devoted and yet appears -"_

"Nevertheless, something was going on here," the hunter pointed out, drawing the friar's attention.

"Well, yes." Carl's eyes drifted up from the paper, to find Gabriel frowning off into space. "But asking about Warren Gray doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere."

"It doesn't, does it." It wasn't a question. The hunter seemed to snap back to the present, blinking and refocusing on Carl. The bench they were sitting on looked out over the houses of Boxborough. "I think we should ease off asking about Warren Gray, just for now," Gabriel murmured thoughtfully.

Carl agreed. "The people know we're curious about him. If we give time for the word to spread, some will come to us."

Gabriel nodded wearily.

"But I did find something out about Anthony Austin's death," Carl piped up, and was rewarded with renewed interest from the hunter.

"What?"

Carl leant back against the wall, tucking his hands more firmly into his sleeves to ward off the cold. "It wasn't anything specific. It seems that he went on a hunting trip with Ancell, the carpenter - Oskar Kellaway, the butcher - Caleb Grogan, and a few others. I spoke to Kellaway and Grogan. They were out later than expected, as night was falling earlier each day. This was back in October. They tracked their quarry as it was getting dark, and there was an accident – somehow, Anthony was killed." Carl frowned. "I couldn't get much detail on that, but a few things that were said led me to believe that I could learn more at the meeting tonight. Are you sure you won't come?"

The hunter shifted nervously in his seat. "Whatever this darkness is," he murmured, his disquiet apparent, "it has grown. I began noticing it more this afternoon. Something is going on."

"Then I suppose you have to go," Carl finished for him. "Alright. Where do you want me to find you after the meeting's over?"

"I don't know how long I'll be," Gabriel admitted. The hunter glanced across the street, to the Pardoe's well-kept home. The last window on the right corner of the first floor, noticeable by the yellow flowers peeking up in the bottommost panes of glass; he pointed it out to Carl. "That room is Mrs. Pardoe's sitting room. Around that corner of the house is a door leading to the side; if ever you need to get me, throw a rock at the second floor, front window, and then wait by that door." Carl nodded in understanding. "Tonight, however, I'll meet you at Schoen's. You have a room on the bottom floor?"

"Yes – it's at the rear left of the house. I'll leave a lantern out so you'll know which window."

Gabriel nodded – it was settled then. "All right. I'm going to get something to eat, and then make my excuses to the Pardoes. If I don't show up by ten tonight, I'll meet you here tomorrow morning at seven."

Carl nodded, realizing that for now, they had done all they could. He would visit Lamar before the evening meal, which would be followed almost immediately by the town meeting. The friar was a little anxious – for all his suspicions, Gray had never attended one of the meetings in all the thirty-four days he had spent here. Now, having been in Boxborough for barely three days, they were already being accepted into the fold?

Carl was struck with the sudden wish that Lamar hadn't fallen ill. The hunter had already gone. Pushing aside his apprehension, he stood from the bench and began to make his way east, to the Widow's home.

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The whole deal with the magicians and pentacles was inspired and taken from Jonathan Stroud's most excellent "Bartimaeous Trilogy", of which The Amulet of Samarkand and The Golem's Eye are available. I highly recommend them for ages 8+; the final book in the trilogy, Ptolemy's Gate, will be released this October; so go! Read! They're fantastic! And, sadly, not mine.


	14. Chapter 14

WARNING: The rating on this chapter is upped to R (or M – however you look at it). This is NOT for the kiddies, for the same reasons as before; explicit description, no sexual situations or character death. If dissections squick you out or you couldn't handle chapter 12, then I suggest you skim once more. The action is for random-freak, who's been begging me for more since about ch. 3. I hear, and obey. (evil grin).

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Few were the occasions when his senses betrayed him; yet this was such a one. After claiming a tiredness that he in fact felt all too keenly, Gabriel waited until the Pardoes were gone. Concealed behind a curtain, he had watched from the window as the remainder of the town drifted to the church in drips and drabs, before slipping from the house. He had trekked westward, some instinct telling him that the darkness plaguing his senses did not stretch as far in this direction.

So now, dependant on his night-sight more than anything else, Gabriel wandered along the razor edge of the shadow on his senses, half-hoping that he would find something, half-hoping he wouldn't.

When he stumbled into the first clearing, it was the _sense_ of darkness, rather than the actual inky blackness, that had him jerking to a stop with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. The feel of it skittered uncomfortably over his skin, oppressing him and raising the hair on the back of his neck. The entire clearing reverberated a power at odds with the chiming of his soul, and he choked down the bile rising in his throat.

Composing himself, Gabriel squinted, able to make out a black shape in the center of the clearing. His certainty that he knew what this was, however, was dashed to pieces by the unveiling of the moon. A shaft of silvery light broke through the blackness, reflecting off the snow and illuminating the clearing.

Rare were the instances when Gabriel swore. Even rarer, however, were those in which he prayed.

"Merciful God." The words slipped from his lips, and he had no idea he'd said them until he heard the reverent plea, and wondered where it came from.

The snow in this clearing had been packed down hard from the tramping of many feet, dirtied by shoes and unwholesome intentions. Approaching the . . . _thing_ in the center, Van Helsing found his steps inadvertently slowing, and he gave more care to where he was putting his feet. He found himself unwilling to go forward, and then saw something standing out strangely on the ground, carving a line of darkness against the snow.

Crouching down, he gently laid two fingers on the thin line that traced a circle around the . . . _object_ in the center. Immediately, knowledge flooded his mind. It was a warding line, laid down in salt, grave-soil and semen(). A line with the power and ability to keep something out, or to keep it in; magician's work, almost certainly that of a warlock. But for all its potency, it did not have the power to keep him out. Few things on Earth did.

The hunter stood up and was assailed by dizziness. He staggered a step before regaining his balance, and glared at the warding line. Without warning, he stepped over the line, feeling as if he was forcing his way through water. The sensation ceased with an abrupt jolt once he fully passed into the circle.

Now, he got his first clear glimpse of the thing in the center.

It had been a man, once.

Like the deer, this body had also been skinned, but much more carefully. The exquisite detail of musculature was perfectly revealed, and the body itself had been meticulously washed of all traces of blood. There was none on the stick that impaled this man, in like manner to the deer. Tendons and sinews were stretched in sharp relief. His blindfold, the only cloth of any sort adorning the naked body, was still in place under a head of dirty-blonde hair.

Compared to this, it seemed obvious to the hunter that the deer in the forest had been erected hastily. There was no sign of blood, no massive hole hacked into the chest. The only indication of something amiss was in the horizontal line of stitches across the dead man's abdomen; they were small, and expertly sewn with black cotton thread.

Flicking out his knife, the hunter took a step closer.

The body was rigid, limned in ice and frozen through; it had to have been out in the forest for days, at the least. It was also much lower to the ground than the deer had been; the man's toes dangled a few scant inches from the snow.

Before bringing the knife closer, the hunter took a good long look at the scene. The mercy stroke was again missing, but the man's limbs were strangely relaxed, and the impalement itself seemed to have gone smoothly; a difficult feat when the victim was struggling for his life. It was a cruel, harsh way in which to die; Gabriel knew from experience that the unlucky could live for days before succumbing.

The hunter walked around the man carefully, but saw no bruising in the muscles, contusions, tears, or strains near the joints that might have occurred if the man was fighting. Then again, the low temperature would preclude much evidence of that struggle from showing on the body, he reflected ruefully. His best guess would be that the man had been already dead; if not, then serious drugs or a major head injury had come into play. The half-light from the moon was hard to see in, and despite the hunter's excellent night-sight, he could see no sign of a head injury.

Grotesquely, the man appeared to be painlessly suspended upon the pike. Arms and legs slumped easily, the loose posture disconcerting to behold. The hunter swallowed. Though he hated to admit himself unsettled by the evil rampant in the world, he had seen nothing to rival this cruelty in a hundred years or more.

Gabriel turned his attention to the blindfold, rubbing the material thoughtfully between his fingers. He examined the cloth carefully. It was homespun black cotton, made by hand from natural materials, and dyed using the nuts from a black walnut tree, more than likely. It had been expertly hemmed, the extravagant length tightly tied over the eyes. Though the face itself was devoid of skin, the hair had not been removed, and the ghastly contrast of tender flesh and matted blonde curls was enough to turn the hunter's stomach.

He finished circling, stopping in front of the man again. Where the body might once have been pink, it was now unnaturally pale and the lack of expression on the man's face only troubled the hunter further.

Quashing his disgust, he reached forward and split the stitches across the dead man's abdomen with a swipe of his blade.

The flesh was stiff, and he had to pry it apart with his hands before he could see inside. It finally gave with the sharp crackle of breaking ice and a dull tearing sound. The man's entrails showed traces of blood, ripped tissue accompanied by savage splinters that had peeled away from the rough wood and lodged in soft organs. Frozen bile and blood saturated the cavity, crystallized brown and red which had mixed into a sopping black that had spattered and pooled; but something out of place caught the hunter's eye. Gabriel reached deeply inside and his fingers hit wood. Scrabbling along the pole, he felt a knuckle catch on metal and frowned. Just below that, questing fingertips came into contact with something soft. He probed it carefully for a moment; squarish, smooth and flat, he felt wetness as the warmth from his fingers melted the ice coating the unknown object. He clutched and ripped, yanking his hand from the dead man's stomach, ignoring the few dislodged pieces of intestine that flew out into the air.

In his hand was a folded packet. It was vellum, he realized immediately; tanned skin stretched and cured to produce valuable parchment. It, too was frozen, and was not quite as pristine as the corpse was on the outside – a few bloody fingerprints had dried on the snow-white skin. A bottom edge was black, where it had been dipped accidentally in the medley of body fluids. Whatever this was, it had been deliberately placed inside after the impalement. It was also so caked in ice that Gabriel risked damaging it if he tried to open it. So he shoved it into a pocket, and returned to the gaping hole. The flesh around the unnatural maw in the victim's abdomen bulged unpleasantly. He must have shattered some of the ice and tissues holding sagging organs in place.

When he placed his hand back inside, he remembered the deer he had seen and an important memory pricked his consciousness. Reaching his hand deeper for what he vowed to be the final time, Gabriel felt carefully for many minutes before withdrawing his fingers, suspicions confirmed. The heart was also strangely missing from this man.

Everything about this death contrasted jarringly with the downright sloppy deer carcasses mounted around the Austin home. This kill was the epitome of clean and careful; someone – or several someones – had clearly taken the time to do this properly. And the care exhibited in the skinning and impaling spoke of the ease of practice.

But on discovering this one, the hunter knew what he would find along the borders of darkness gulping the life from Boxborough. More bodies, probably all identically butchered, forming a pentacle encompassing the town and nearby lands. _But why?_

Just to be certain, Gabriel followed the scent of darkness through the night, balancing on the edges of the mild evil floating through the air, tracking it. Each body he came to, all male, had been ruthlessly carved in like manner – the skin missing, a row of stitches sewn over the abdomen concealing a frozen parchment, and the space where a heart should be. A warding line of the same three components circled each. Prompted by some instinct he could not explain, a buried memory half-realized, Gabriel searched each body, removing the parchments and keeping them with him.

It was very late by the time he had found the fourth body, far to the east of the town. His mind was stuffed full of questions. What was the darkness he could sense on the air? How had it manifested seemingly overnight, when each of the bodies showed signs of having been exposed to the elements for at least a week? Who was behind these killings, and why? Why the gruesome nature of the death? And most immediately, what was written on the parchments now slowly unfreezing in his pocket?

He was so preoccupied, he almost missed the muffled sound of a foot gone awry in the snow, the gradual fading of nighttime sounds into silence. Almost, but not quite. But practically before he understood the sound, he was attacked.

They were clothed in black, skulking through the deepest shadows of the forest, hunting him. Three people – men from their build - crept at him from the front, left and right. Which meant . . .

Gabriel whirled to see the last coming at him from behind, half a head taller than the rest, with a brawn that black clothes could not conceal, and an all-too-distinctive build.

"Ancell," Gabriel growled, certain of the other's identity. He was rewarded when the tall figure paused, in surprise or confusion, he could not tell. How had they found him?

Gabriel acted in that moment, charging the biggest figure immediately, aiming to take Ancell out while he was still fresh. For all that he needed to get away, needed to escape this well-sprung trap, he didn't bring out his blades, confining himself to feet and fists. Self-defense or not, he could not kill them.

Ancell refused to sidestep, which would have left a path of escape open to the hunter. Meeting the charge head on, he blocked the first blow with a raised forearm, reaching out with one foot to hook the hunter's ankles and topple him to the snow. Gabriel's jump lifted him clear of that trap, but his backward leap brought him into range of the three smaller men creeping up from his blind sides.

It was the work of a moment to beat them back, to gain time with which to face Ancell again. They retreated only a little, nursing small wounds and preparing to attack again. Ancell closed in, and this time he initiated the attack.

Gabriel twisted, taking a glancing blow across the ribs to avoid a fist that would have knocked him cold, gasping at the power behind the hit. But he was not without strength of his own, and a harsh grunt came from the blacksmith as a hard kick had him doubled over in the snow.

The ground was slick, and when the men behind him saw Ancell go down, just for a moment, Gabriel used that to his advantage. Howling in fury, the three charged him at once, and he ran at them, dropping into a slide that took out two below the knees, sending them hard to the ground. There was an ominous thud, and one did not rise.

Gabriel rolled to his feet, reaching inside his coat for the dart gun, ready to end this. It was knocked from his hand as the one man who had kept his footing struck out at him with a stave, and went skittering across the clearing.

He blocked the first blow by the stave, and with the second managed to wrap his fingers round the smooth wood. A shove and a jerk wrested the staff from its former owner's hands. A quick, dirty blow upside the head dropped him to the ground, and he didn't move.

Something crashed into him from behind, and Gabriel found himself face-first in the snow, a heavy weight grinding him into the ground, the stave trapped uselessly beneath him. He heaved with his body, trying to throw the other off him, and succeeded only in rolling them over – the unknown man's grasp held firm.

Gabriel gasped for air; a heavy blow to his side had him curling up, involuntarily seeking to protect the vulnerability. A series of harsh kicks robbed him of breath and voice. Loosing patience quickly, Gabriel rammed his foot backward, managing to catch the shin of whomever was still pinning him in the snow. That was only a diversion, however. As a breathless curse wafted past his ear, a wriggle and a shove gave him the leverage he needed. The hunter powered up from the ground, twisting up and around to catch his assailant's face with the hard, sharp bone of his elbow. The splintering crunch and flood of warmth told him he had broken the man's nose.

With a rasping scream the man rolled off him, clutching his face. A stain was rapidly spreading through the black cloth kerchief pulled up to conceal his face. Gabriel jumped to his feet, surveying the damage – two men unconscious, one definitely debilitated. Where was . . . . sudden instinct propelled him in a rolling dive, none too soon. A sharp crack split he air, shards of wood flying from the tree where the bullet had lodged.

Ancell repositioned himself to fire – and Gabriel knew that unless he was willing to escalate, unless he was willing to kill this man in cold blood, there was nothing he could do against the unexpected appearance of a gun. Without wasting time for thought, he turned and bolted through the trees, scooping up his dart gun as he crossed the edge of the clearing. Weaving and dodging, he raced the bullets westward. The town – he would be relatively safe in public view, he hoped.

The sound of gunfire slowly faded; even so, Gabriel did not stop. He was running, leaping over fallen trees and ducking around branches and brambles. But then there was no ground under his feet, only a sickening drop. An explosion of pain heralded the encroaching darkness.

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"Well?" The one who spoke did so in full knowledge of the answer.

"He's alone, just as you ordered."

"And the others?" A question purred in satisfaction, still confident of the response.

"I've gathered the reports. They are appropriately . . . incapacitated. For now."

"Good."

"But -"

"What is it?" Sharp voice, angry, annoyed.

The second flinched back. "I just – will it work? He's independent and strong willed – I don't -"

"Cease your whining. He'll join us. If we don't manage to convince him, he'll do it to keep his friends safe," the other all but sneered. "Either way, he's ours."

"But he suspects -"

"They _all_ do. Why do you think they were sent here?" Impatience, now. Better than aggravation, but not by much.

"That fool, Gray," the second spat, with anger born of fear and shame.

"_Someone_ was not as careful as they should have been," the first voice agreed gently.

The second shivered, eyes fixed on the ground. "It won't happen again," came the ragged whisper.

"I trust not." A pause, laden with sweaty relief, before the leader spoke once more. "Gray did not know enough to cause true damage. He was a fool, though a perceptive one. These – these are the more powerful, and we can turn the situation to suit our needs." The voice grew harsh, commanding, greedy. "Listen carefully. _I want them all_. The scientist and the hunter especially, but they each have their uses. They will be ours."

The second bowed briefly in acknowledgement.

"_Do you understand?_" The powerful demand reminded the other of why they served him, why this man deserved their allegiance and unquestioning loyalty, even unto death.

"I do," breathed the servant.

"Good. Let the others know."

"I will."

"You must leave. The meeting will start soon."

"I hear, and obey."

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() Much as I would love to take credit for the "warding line laid down in salt, grave-soil and semen", it's actually my adaptation of warding lines as described by Simon R. Green in his "Something From the Nightside" series, and I was definitely thinking of it when I wrote that line. The third book, Nightingale's Lament, tells of warding lines laid down in salt, silver and semen. The general availability of silver in this time and place prompted me to tweak it a bit. I recommend this series also, as they're a macabre, fun little thrill ride; but not for anyone under thirteen, and my personal rating ups to PG-15 with the third book in the series.

Also, thanks to all my stalwart reviewers, especially misc ( ) who actually liked ch. 13, and wasn't shy about letting me know. I really appreciate that, as I was having waaay more fun with 14 while simultaneously trying to wrap up 13. (candy to misc ( )!)


	15. Chapter 15

Carl plucked anxiously at the hem of his robes, snapping upright when he realized what he was doing. There was no reason to be nervous, he chastised himself. None at all. Just because he was mostly alone in this town, with his backup searching out in the woods for traces of evil and too far away to help should anything happen, with the villagers eyeing him in a way he could only describe as hungry, was no cause at all to –

A hush fell over the room, starting in the back and lapping up the aisles towards the front altar. Cresting on the wave of silence was the mayor, Derek Hastings, followed by his family – a wife and two teenage sons, Tyler and Eric. The wife was a pale slip of a woman by the name of Alicia, dwarfed by the tall men of her family. Carl had heard it whispered that she had once, in her childrens' youth, been vibrant and well-known for her sweet energy. Now, she was limpid and often sickly, wasting away. Few expected the petite lady to live out the year, and Carl was surprised by her appearance here, despite her illness.

Looking around from his somewhat dubious seat of honor in the first pew, the friar was able to see many familiar faces, though they were by far outranked by those whom he did not know. Ben, Ned, the Widow Austin and Tanya were absent, however; the lateness of the meetings during the cold months of the year meant that no one expected them to attend, with so far to travel.

He made room for Mrs. Hastings and her two sons. He smiled comfortingly at her faint greeting, briefly shaking hands with her two boys. Tyler was eighteen, his brother Eric a year younger. Both took after their father in height and their dark coloring could have come from either parent, but while Eric had his father's green eyes, Tyler favored his mother with orbs of a startling bright blue.

When the Hastings' were seated, the patriarch of the town moved behind the altar and waited with a patient smile for the last rustlings and shufflings to quiet. "Good evening, and God bless," he began, taking confident control of the group.

"God bless," the town murmured as one.

The difference between political and pompous was never clearer; Hastings epitomized the former, and nothing about his demeanor could be described as falsely officious. He was utterly in command, taking up the reigns of control so gently that few saw it. But Carl was paying close attention, trained to notice the masterful hand guiding the crowd's emotions.

"We meet this night to address matters of the town that have arisen in the past week." Hastings reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he perched upon his thin nose. Peering down at a sheaf of papers which seemed to appear from nowhere, he glanced up and smiled. "Well, it seems we don't have much to speak of tonight," he brandished the papers with a smile.

A few people in the church chuckled, and Hastings grinned back, keeping the mood light.

"First, I would like to re-introduce the members of our Order, Brothers who have traveled from Rome herself to visit with us. Unfortunately, Lamar Al Ghamdi, our Brother who was born in Jerusalem, has taken ill. The weather in Massachusetts is much harsher than he was prepared for, but Doctor Lamborne has assured me that he will recover." Carl frowned at the liberties Hastings was taking with the truth, but it made sense that he would not want to publicly air the fact that Lamar had gotten into a fight. Most of the town probably knew already, the friar thought wryly. Ah, the power of gossip. "Gabriel Van Helsing -"

At the murmur that broke out, a smile that could only be described as smug crossed Hastings' face. "Yes," he interrupted after a time, when it was apparent that the hubbub was only growing. "The Order's most renowned hunter has been sent to us for a time. However, Mrs. Pardoe has informed me that he is feeling the effects of the lengthy journey and asked to be allowed to rest tonight. He will surely join us in a few days' time at our next gathering." Hastings took a deep breath, now, his words strangely proprietary when he spoke, making Carl hunch his shoulders uneasily. "The third member of the party from Rome is Carl Weldon, who is sitting with my family tonight." An upraised hand quelled any noise that might have sounded before it began, thus Carl never learned the general public opinion on his own presence. "I ask you all to give him a bit of time and space before you jump on him with your questions," Derek laughed amiably.

The crowd laughed as well, Carl halfheartedly following suit, somehow feeling as if his presence was being flaunted before the crowd. But that makes no sense, he told himself sternly. And if so, why? For what, or whom?

Try as he might, he couldn't fully dismiss the silly notion. His thoughts were redirected, however, as Hastings began the true business of the meeting.

"Now that pleasantries have been concluded, and our Brothers from Rome know how welcome they are in our humble town, I would like to move on to other concerns.

"Firstly, the matter of the cable system to Acton. We have not yet been able to raise enough money to properly repair and update the system. I will not increase the taxes on the businesses here as with winter we are cut off with most of our trade. But we will need to see a substantial increase through this summer to make up for the lack, if we wish this problem to be fixed before the year is out."

Carl was puzzled by this – Rome would be easily able to accommodate the expense to fix the broken cable, and would be glad to do so to reestablish regular communication with the only colony of the Order on the Eastern Coast of America. Doubtless the American independence of which Carl was also proud was coming into play here, but it simply wasn't practical. He would need to have a word with Hastings. The crowd, however, seemed pleased with this turn of events, and Carl could see several people speaking agreeably with their neighbors about the plan.

Derek Hastings continued in this thread for a short time, openly discussing the predictable drops in economic success for the town as winter closed them off from nearby routes of trade and travel. Carl was a bit surprised that all the store owners had given the mayor such detailed records of sales, profits and losses so that he was able to precisely tally and track the success of any business, which he demonstrated to the entire town. The only revenues doing well were, predictably, the General Store, **Payne's Baked Goods**, and Caleb Grogan's butchery, along with a few assorted housewives who sold pies or assisted other members of the community.

"Secondly," Hastings' voice had an immediate, sobering effect on the crowd. "The permit modification for division of land that we were discussing last week has passed on to the state court system for a final decision. They plan on hearing the case next month at the soonest."

There was a general grumble at this announcement, and Hastings' smile of tried patience seemed to perfectly mirror the mood of the crowd.

"On another note," Hastings moved on to other news after giving the people of Boxborough some time to chew over these predicted developments. "I would like to announce that Caleb Grogan's courtship of Jennifer Frobisher has come to an end – they are engaged and planning to be married in August."

Why would that be a matter worthy of note by the community? Carl wondered, but was soon answered by the cheer that went up. The bride-to-be blushed prettily from her seat next to her sister, and the shy but loving glance she exchanged with Caleb Grogan was the cause for many knowing smiles.

"Now that the town business is concluded, I'd like to move on to our business for the Order. Project managers, how goes the work?" Unexpectedly, it was Mr. Pardoe who stood.

"Mayor," he began gruffly. "Everything seems to be going well, and many of our projects are close to completion. I was wondering if we might have the loan of Mr. Weldon, as we may have hit a snag on one or two of our latest endeavors."

Hastings smiled. "Of course. Carl, if you would be so kind?"

The friar was openly surprised. "Anything I can do to help," he managed. Pardoe's weathered face split along the seams, a smile forming on the thin lips. "Much obliged."

"Now, our trainer," Hastings continued, as if checking each item off a mental list.

Schoen stood, to Carl's surprise. "All of our candidates are coming along nicely," he began in his soft voice. "I have no complaints about their progress; in fact, several should be ready for advancement before the end of the month."

A general murmur of pleased surprise washed through the crowd at this announcement, and even Hastings' smile seemed genuine at the news.

"I believe congratulations are in order for the candidates," he announced as he began clapping. Schoen joined in as he sat, and applause rippled through the room, though for whom, Carl did not know; none of the candidates distinguished themselves from the crowd.

Hastings glanced down at the papers before him, and raised a hand absently to quell the crowd. As he glanced around, Carl noted the effect of the gesture; an expectant air hung over the townspeople as they waited for the next words from their leader.

"I believe that concludes this evening's scheduled agenda," he said thoughtfully. "I will now open the floor to air any concerns that need to be addressed, be they matters of the town or Order."

With that, he stood back and waited. But not for long. A hand shot boldly into the air, and Carl saw Hastings' eyes, roving over the room, fix on someone. "Robert Ancell, rise and be recognized," he calmly bade him.

"Thank you, mayor."

His voice, and memory of his attack on Lamar, set Carl's teeth on edge. He fisted the hands hidden within his robe, reminding himself to remain calm and listen. Like the others seated between the blacksmith and the altar, he turned sideways in his seat to more easily see both.

"I am concerned about the Widow Austin, and her situation," the brawny blacksmith admitted. His face was furrowed in genuine emotion as he stood before the townspeople.

A wordless murmur of assent, tinged with worry, floated up from the crowd.

"Ah. Yes." Hastings stepped up to the altar once more, resting his hand on the cloth-covered surface as he thought. "I know that many of you are concerned for Mathilde," he began seriously. "With the recent loss of her husband and the fact that she is sequestered so far from the bulk of the town, many of you have a right to be concerned for her. But I believe she is still in mourning, and to uproot her now when she does not wish to leave, even for her own safety and that of her child and Ben, would cause more harm than good. I can assure you all that she is suitably protected -" the pentacle, Carl thought suddenly, "- and her friends in this town watch over her and her young ones. I can promise you no harm will come to her." How can he make a promise like that? Carl wondered.

"Even so -" Ancell rumbled uncertainly, and seemed prepared to continue when Hastings' eyes flashed in anger.

"You doubt my word?" the mayor snapped. The room was suddenly very still. Glancing around uneasily, Carl noticed the strange intensity of the townsfolk, centered piercingly on the mayor and blacksmith. Hastings visibly regained control over himself, and continued in softer tones. "I know you are very concerned for the Widow, Robert, as you were a close friend of Anthony. But let me assure you that everything which can be done, is being done."

There was a long moment, in which Ancell was clearly gauging the quality of the Mayor's answer. Carl caught a flash of something on his face that made him think that perhaps Ancell was a bit more concerned for his friend's wife than he had let on. Perhaps he felt a bit more for the Widow than was readily apparent, Carl mused, almost certain of what he had seen, and what it meant.

"As you say, Mayor," Ancell replied at length, sitting down. The silence flowing throughout the room was less strained than before, and another hand tentatively poked up through the sea of heads and bodies neatly lined in pews.

"Jacob Lamborne, rise and be recognized," Hastings acknowledged the doctor, who stood and in a few succinct, squeaky sentences reminded the townspeople to tell their children to avoid the weak ice of the millpond, and to take appropriate precautions to stave off illness in the winter months.

And so it went – the ritual acknowledgment of individuals by name, before each rose and stated his concerns before the town. One man mentioned that he was intending to expand his farmland west of the town in the coming year, to increase the produce yield from his farm. Another confirmed a decision to raise a new barn once spring had arrived, and was answered with pledges of support and aid from various townsfolk. The miller, an old, grandfatherly man who was barely able to stand and grasped the pew in front of him for support, proudly announced that his twelve-year-old grandson was soon to be apprenticed into the family trade. As a result, if the town could rally to repair the mill, in the near future they would no longer have to expend the money to export their grain and import flour.

That was the sum of issues addressed by the town council, and Carl found himself marveling at the depth of information the townspeople shared among themselves. Then he queasily wondered what he had done to be so quickly entrusted into their confidence. While most of the details addressed were more mundane than interesting, it was still surprising to him that the people would feel this information worthy of notice in the town council, rather than trusting to gossip to spread the news. Other than that, he found the information addressed in relation to the town's status within the Order to be of note.

It made sense, he supposed, for the one colony composed solely of members of the Knights of the Holy Order to act as a semi-independent outpost in America. After all, despite the speed of communication nowadays, they were essentially adrift in this new continent. There was a reason for that, however. Humanity had long been plaguing the Old Country, where as America was newer, fresher, and in the eyes of evil, less pocketed with dark places to thrive and dwell. Europe, with its traditions and history of darkness, was continually a front-line battle. America, though, was different. It had less weight of history bearing down on it, for one. So it made sense that control here would be looser.

But that was not the case. In his youth, Carl had not attended any councils in the small New Jersey town in which he had been born. He had no real idea if this meeting was the norm or not; he had no measurement against which to judge. But he did know that it was not common for a mass to be held immediately following the conclusion of all matters of town importance.

However, a mass was held, led by Mayor Hastings, to Carl's shock. It was unusual, to say the least, to find that the senior politician of the town was also the highest-ranking deacon of Boxborough, and led the people in affairs of state as well as matters of faith.

He listened closely, and it was the typical Catholic mass, complete with presentation of the host and rite of communion. The story chosen by Hastings for the congregation to reflect on was that well-known Biblical tale of David and Goliath, and as Carl listened intently he had to give Hastings credit for being an enthralling speaker. The man's voice captivated the room as it rose to the heights of the clouds, and plunged with the giant's fall.

At the conclusion of mass, people began to mingle within the church, speaking and murmuring contentedly amongst themselves. Carl was almost hesitantly approached by Mr. Pardoe, though his wife drifted from his side to speak with a clump of women chatting with Alicia Hastings.

"Mr. Pardoe," he smiled at the other man, adjusting his robes and stretching his legs.

"Kevin," the other invited him. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weldon."

Carl nodded. "Just Carl," he introduced himself casually. "How can I help you?"

Pardoe eagerly launched into his tale. "Now, as you may know, as the Order's lone outpost in America, we've taken it upon ourselves to act as a base of resistance against those which you fight in Rome. I can't tell you how grateful we are that you came here to help us, from the heart of the battle itself!"

This man, like Schoen, was quite openly demonstrating his enthusiasm for their cause, and that disconcerted Carl. By now practiced at hiding that emotion, the friar only smiled wanly and replied, "I'm sure."

"Well," Pardoe rocked back on his heels, one hand scratching at his head before falling to his side. "We've been developing our own means of protection, weaponry, and suchlike gadgets for use here at home, and to be sent back to Italy."

"You have?" Interest and caution warred within him; but curiosity won out and shone in his voice. Pardoe smiled, knowing he had snared the other's attention.

"Sure have," he proudly confirmed. "Would it be too much to ask you to come and take a look at what we've developed so far?"

"Of course," Carl accepted eagerly. "Where do you work?"

Pardoe smiled. "There's an outbuilding back behind the smithy that we do most of our designing and building in, but the finished products are housed in backrooms within the General Store. What say you I come to Schoen's tomorrow, around nine, and bring you over?"

Carl thought hard, and then nodded. Should Gabriel not show up tonight, which he doubted, then two hours in the morning should be sufficient for them to go over what he had discovered while Carl was in the meeting. "That would be fine," he assented, though he could not hide his own eagerness. The two continued to speak for a short while, Carl coaxing information about their projects from Pardoe as the church slowly emptied. A small group of men that Carl had never met circled around the two. They worked with Pardoe, apparently, and smiled at Carl's enthusiasm. More than one mentioned bits and pieces of their projects, sparking the scientist's avid interest.

Glancing at the time, he found to his dismay that it was only a quarter to ten – he would have to return to Schoen's immediately to be waiting for Gabriel to return. Taking his leave of the few men remaining, Carl scooted out the door and down the steps of the church, moving to the right to round the building and head for Schoen's.

Harsh words pulled him up before he could turn the corner.

"There's something wrong."

The voice was low, rasping with worry and panting with fear – Carl couldn't tell whose it was though he was certain he'd heard it before.

"I know!" another voice hissed furtively. "I could tell, all through the meeting – the wards were being breached."

A wordless moan of despair was cut off as the second voice continued. "Quiet! This is what I want you to do. Gather the best candidates. The western and north wards have been breached. Head to the eastern ward, past the ravine, and head off whoever is destroying what we've worked so hard for. Whoever it is, I want you to stop them, but do _not_ kill them. Capture and detain. Do you understand?"

"I hear, and obey," the first voice whispered. Carl shivered, pressing himself against the side of the church in fear. They had to be talking about Van Helsing – the hunter must have found something. Whatever it was seemed incredibly important to the speakers. Gathering his courage, Carl took a deep breath, and peeped around the corner.

But the moonlight revealed nothing. They had gone.

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This is for the many reviews (7 at last count, yippee!) I received on the last chap. My goal? To hit 200 with this fic. The more people who review, the faster I go. (grin)


	16. Chapter 16

Cold. It was everywhere, and he could feel its icy, seductive danger despite the firm grasp it had on him. So he resisted, shoving himself toward consciousness and ignoring the persuasive pull it exerted on his bruised and tired body.

He was uncertain at first whether his eyes were open or not – the darkness remained, and for a moment he was frozen with fear. Then he blinked, and turned his head, and could make out faint moonlight on the snow. He hadn't been out for too long, then.

Gabriel carefully shifted his stiff body, and when he was sure nothing was broken, he tried to sit up. He almost bashed his head on something above him, before he realized that somehow, he had fallen and rolled under an overhang created by the exposed roots of a dead tree. The ground under it had been worn away by the flow of water through the ravine, and it had been felled outward – probably in a good storm.

However it had been created, the protective alcove had sheltered him from those chasing him. He had completely forgotten about the ravine, and grimaced now as he remembered Ben's warning of several days ago. It was deep – he was lucky the snow had cushioned his fall, and he had not hit any hidden rocks on the way down.

Gabriel edged out from under the drooping, frozen roots. A cascade of dirt and pebbles showered down on him as he brushed against the roof of his tiny cave. Wiggling and squirming, he pushed himself out from under, emerging into the ravine.

A quick breath and a moment of silence assured him that his pursuers were nowhere near. While they had probably recovered and moved on by now, the moon was beginning its descent, telling the hunter that he had been unconscious for several hours. The night continued on around him, a reassurance in itself. Had they wanted to track him, he would have been discovered long ago. It was now the first few hours of the new day, and he was safe.

But stuck, if only temporarily. The top of the ravine was four feet over his head or more. Luckily, the western edge wasn't a sheer drop – just a very steep incline. Slipping and sliding, Gabriel spent several strained, sweaty moments clawing his way up the snow-covered side of the ravine. Upon gaining the edge, he pulled himself several feet away before getting to his feet.

As he did, the world tilted and swirled crazily in front of his eyes, leaving him slumped against a tree trunk for support. A moment later the balance restored itself, and a thought flitted through the hunter's mind; maybe he had hit his head after all. Tabling the question for later examination, he glanced at the setting stars, and was shocked by how much time had gone by. With only a rough guess to go by, he judged that it was after four in the morning.

There would be no way for him to stroll into the town unseen at this hour; the baker and blacksmith at the very least would be hard at work by the time he arrived. The last thing he needed was to meet Ancell looking like he did. The hunter wasn't fool enough to think that the other man would pass up obvious weakness in favor of avoiding a public spectacle. He had attacked Lamar with little to no provocation, after all.

Only a show of strength would get him past knowing eyes untouched. Ancell, he could pinpoint. As for the other three – one would be sporting a broken nose today, but the others would be more difficult to identify. He couldn't take the risk of appearing vulnerable or unprepared in any way.

Looking down at himself, Gabriel could only sigh in resignation. The shirt he was wearing was torn and stained with mud and blood. His jacket sported several ominous patches that couldn't be mistaken for anything but dried blood, and the rest of his clothing was in similar disarray.

Walking into public view like this would raise questions. He had only one choice left, and he idly wondered if the Widow would even let him enter her home.

As he approached the house, however, the darkness that had been lurking in his consciousness since he opened his eyes seemed to dissipate, and he rubbed his head carefully. There was no sign of a lump, or any other indication that he'd been hurt in his tumble into the ravine, but he felt odd. The advancing and receding waves of evil lapping against his consciousness served only to confuse him.

Arriving at his destination none too soon, he called out a warning once he entered the yard. "_Ben? Ned?_"

In the time it took him to reach the door, the youths had bounded from bed and were quietly opening the way for him. Ben stared with wide eyes as the light from the fire shadowed the full extent of the hunter's adventures that night. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Ned was sniffing him carefully, as if searching for injury. _"Blood_," the black Lab added anxiously, giving a gentle lick to Gabriel's hand.

"I'm fine," the hunter replied. "I was -"

"Ben?"

The towheaded lad jerked in surprise. The hunter closed the door behind himself, turning and bowing to Mathilde as she wrapped a thick shawl around herself. Gabriel, conscious of his disarray, pulled his coat tighter around his frame. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said politely. "I fell into the ravine east of here, and didn't mean to intrude at so early an hour -"

"But you've obviously done so anyway," Mathilde interrupted, sharp eyes examining him unforgivingly.

Gabriel met her gaze squarely.

The Widow sighed, then, folding her arms over her chest and glancing away, to the fire. Lamar was sleeping, propped up by several pillows and enfolded in blankets, before the banked coals. His breathing was markedly easier. "Ben, go to bed," she ordered quietly.

The boy hesitated, however, looking to Gabriel. He nodded, and Mathilde's eyes hardened as she observed the exchange before she sighed again, shoulders drooping in resignation as she stepped forward.

She waited until the door shut before she opened her mouth to speak, but Gabriel spoke first. "I'm sorry for intruding on you like this," he said abruptly. "I just came to check on Lamar. I'll go -"

"Wait." Mathilde cut him off, a mix of emotions flashing across her face. "Come sit down," she invited him finally.

The hunter was just as wary as the Widow. He sat on a bench opposite her, close to the fire, and took the opportunity to examine Lamar.

The Jerusalemite was ill, yet looked remarkably better. He was sleeping upright to ease his breathing, though Gabriel could tell that his face was a bit flushed from fever. His lips were parched and cracked, and every so often he would give a dry, tight cough. The sound was a good one; it meant that there was almost no mucus rattling in his lungs. Either he had already expelled it, or there hadn't been much to start with. It reassured Gabriel, as nothing else could. He knew the signs and sounds of death, whether coming from wound or disease or age, and Lamar showed none of them. The man would recover.

"He's looking much better," Gabriel murmured, a smile lighting his features.

Mathilde turned up a lamp, setting it on the rough tabletop, and tucked her shawl under her arms. "Yes, he is," she agreed quietly. "But that doesn't mean I understand why you felt the need to drop by this early to check on him. Especially -"

They both knew what she was about to say.

"I was worried." Gabriel lightly brushed off her worries, and the woman sighed.

"I believe, Mr. Van Helsing," she replied very quietly, "That I owe you an apology."

"Ma'am?" To say he was startled would have been an understatement.

Mathilde stared at Lamar as she softly began to speak, avoiding the hunter's gaze. "My father was a very harsh man, Mr. Van Helsing. I don't know if you knew, but I had an older brother. He ran away, to become a drummer boy in the army during the war between the states. My father was furious, vowed to beat him so hard that he wouldn't sit for a month, as soon as he got home safe again." She took a deep breath, and he could tell that the words were hard for her. She fiddled with the knob on the lamp, raising and lowering the light as she stared into the flame. "I loved Brian. He was my hero, my big brother. When we would hide together under the covers during thunderstorms, he would always tell me that all would come right in the morning, that the sun would shine brighter and the flowers be all the more beautiful for the rain and the noise. He died in his first battle," she said bluntly. "Fredricksburg – and the man who told me spent part of a day and a full night listening to the bullets hit Brian's body while he hid behind it to survive.

"I have never . . . understood violence, Mr. Van Helsing. And since that day, I have never condoned it. Brian's death destroyed my father. Ever after, I never saw him take joy in life, except when he drank and when he hunted. To have lost my husband to a hunting accident – it was almost more than I could bear, for a long time. The pain of it is still with me." Her eyes glistened, and she turned away. "I don't understand what it is that you do," she admitted, a laughing sob in her voice. "And I don't know if I can, but I'm afraid that I took it out on you the last time you were in my home, and I'm sorry for it."

She quickly wiped at her eyes, still facing away from him, and Gabriel spoke in turn. "It is I who should apologize. I didn't know the circumstances surrounding your husband's death – I am still largely unaware of them, truth be told, but asking you in so blunt a fashion was cruel of me, and unworthy of us both. I am truly sorry."

Mathilde's smile was watery, but strong. "It's nothing to be sorry for. Most people are curious, and at least you let me be, not like that Gray! He never stopped asking, no mater how many times I told him to leave." She sighed now, putting aside her tears to concentrate on the present. "But that's enough for now," she finished, muffling a sniffle in a handkerchief. "Suffice it to say, I think we understand one another a bit better, hmm?"

Gabriel nodded, and she banished her pain, looking at him judiciously. "And what happened to you, that has you knocking down my door at all hours of the night?"

"I fell into the ravine," Gabriel responded blandly.

"Of course," Mathilde snorted, giving him a knowing look. "And do you take me for a fool?"

"I'd spare you the details, ma'am," he said carefully, and she nodded briskly.

"Well, then, I think I can live with that. Ben!"

The door swung back immediately, and boy and dog practically spilled from the opening. Gabriel grinned, and Ben grinned back. Mathilde rolled her eyes. "Men," she scoffed gently.

Ned whined a little, wagging his tail and trotting up to Mathilde, to press against her side and gaze up adoringly. She sniffed, then smiled and petted his head.

"Ben, if you could go in the bottom left drawer of my dresser, and bring out some of the breeches and shirts you'll find there?" she requested. "They were Tony's," she said with a determined smile as the boy scooted off to follow her instruction. "I want to save a few, as patterns for Ben when he gets bigger, but the boy seems determined not to grow just yet," she laughed. "But I think you could do with a change of clothes, for now at least."

"Thank you," Gabriel murmured.

Ben brought the clothes out, and Mathilde said, "I'll leave you for now – call me if there's a problem. There should be enough water in the bucket, Ben. I need to check on Tanya."

With that, Mathilde moved to the children's room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Gabriel pulled off his boots, shrugging out of his jacket with a resigned wince. His sweater was torn in places, through the shirt to skin, soaked and coated in dirt.

"Blimey," Ben muttered as it came off. The black shirt beneath was also soaked, ripped in fewer places than the sweater, luckily, but somehow it had contrived to be covered in dirt as well. It was harder to see, but mud flaked to the floor as Gabriel pulled it off.

Ben sucked in a breath in shock, but Gabriel was pleased to see that it didn't feel as bad as it looked. He pressed gently against a few of the bruises that painted a painful collage over his skin. Most were superficial, though a few tinged with deep pain that hinted of more damage than was apparent. Blue, purple, black and yellowed green – these colors and more played out over his skin.

Left Hand of God he might be, but his mortal incarnation was barely different than the human body, composed of the same strengths and frailties. He was different, in that he would heal easier with fewer marks, in that he was attuned to things beyond mortal understanding, but his physical body was as vulnerable as any other.

"What happened?" Ben asked, and the shock in his voice made Gabriel's head shoot up in concern.

"Nothing much," the hunter shrugged, being carefully nonchalant about his injuries; they really _were_ minor. "I was investigating something in the woods, and there were a few people who thought I should be directing my attention . . . elsewhere. Could you get me some water, please?" Something, anything, to keep the boy distracted. He shouldn't be seeing this, Gabriel knew, and something like guilt assailed him.

He washed down his upper body, wiping away dirt, sweat and a little blood, before asking Ben to fetch him something from upstairs. As soon as the boy turned to go into the loft, he stripped down and washed the few cuts on his side where a boot had sliced open his sweater and shirt, and the bruises on his thighs and legs from the fight. He was dressed in the clean, dark brown breeches when Ben came down, empty-handed and confused, and he reassured the boy that his task had been unimportant.

He fingered the white shirt reluctantly before putting it on, and Ben's wide-eyed gasp when he turned to face the boy was not wholly unexpected.

There were few things that Gabriel did not do. He did not draw attention to himself, and he did not wear white. One thing was closely linked to another. White was symbolic for purity and innocence, but it was also so much more than that. The one color that was every color, the color which encompassed everything, even black, and utterly defied the shadows. White was used to see things clearly, its very nature making it utterly useless for concealment.

It was why Beelzebul had worn white. That creature had flaunted what he was to those with the eyes to see. Beautiful beyond measure, yes, but wholly evil and twisted, fallen and impure; and he terrified the world with his very existence.

It was why Gabriel never wore white, if he could help it. When he did, his true nature was that much harder to hide. White was a color that could not keep a secret, and to protect others as much as himself, Gabriel turned to the shadow and clothed himself in shades of black.

Now, he pulled in the control he had over his true essence, tightening the bonds that held his ultimate nature buried deep within. He must have succeeded, at least a little, because Ben's eyes lost their dazzled, overwhelmed stare. The hunter grimaced. Wearing white was always a revelation – for in the eyes of those who beheld his true nature, he also learned something more about humanity, and about himself. It was an unequivocal reminder of the split between himself and mankind, the gulf that separated him even from the perpetual youth who was now a little brother to him.

"Are you alright?"

Gabriel laughed softly, for they had asked the question at the same time. Ben lapsed into a grin as well, and nodded. Thoughtful blue eyes rested on the hunter, and it was the peace in Gabriel's expression that fully reassured him when the man responded, "I'll be fine in no time, Ben."

The boy accepted that answer, but it was Ned who spoke his next question for him. _"Well, what happened out there in the woods, then, matey?"_

Gabriel's grin banished solemnity, but only for a moment. He sat down at the table, pulling on his boots as he spoke. "I found something . . . truly terrible in the forest," he replied after thinking for a moment. He locked eyes with Ben, and then said, "It is not something fit for young eyes, and I would rather you didn't see it. Will you promise me, Ben, not to stray from the path or venture into the woods, until Carl, Lamar and I have figured out what is going on? Until we have removed the shadow from the town and woods?" Hazel eyes were pleading, true concern in their warmth.

The boy nodded solemnly, and Gabriel turned to the dog. "_**Do I have your word as well, Ned?**"_

The dog's brown eyes were filled with worry. _"Of course."_ Ned stared at the boy for a moment, but the hunter did not listen in, and busied himself with lacing his boots. The clothes fit surprisingly well, if they were just a tad on the small side.

"What now?" Ben asked, as he walked to the closed door of the children's room and knocked, telling Mathilde that she could come out now.

"I'm going to go back to the Pardoes'," the hunter replied calmly. "I'll return your things as soon as possible, ma'am," he nodded to Mathilde. "My thanks for your help."

She shook her head at him, a friendly smile playing about her mouth. "I can respect you, Mr. Van Helsing, despite the fact that I may never understand what it is you do."

His face took on an unaccustomed grimness as the hunter stood and shrugged into his coat. "Thank you. I hope you never have to."

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	17. Chapter 17

Carl woke struggling frantically, someone's hand over his mouth. He bit down, hard, but with inhuman speed the hand was gone. Sucking in a deep breath, ready to shout loud enough to be heard in Boston, he finally registered the voice that had been hissing in his ear for the last minute. The breath he had taken clogged in his throat, and he started to cough on his relief.

"Carl, calm down! Carl! It's me!"

"Van Helsing?"

The friar turned, to see the hunter pulling himself upright with a relieved expression.

"For a moment there I thought you were about to bring the whole town down on us,"Gabriel breathed. He steadied himself as he rose, and Carl blinked in sleepy surprise as the adrenaline drained away.

Pushing himself from bed, the friar glanced out the window and realized that the sun had not yet risen. "What time is it?" he asked hoarsely. The need to sleep was reasserting itself, and he grumpily ignored it. "How did you -"

Gabriel flapped a hand absently at the window in answer, and Carl noticed that it had been expertly jimmied, and opened from the outside. Shivering at the draft, he trotted over to shut out the chill wind.

As he did, Van Helsing lit a small lamp that stood on a tiny table, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. When he turned, Carl caught a glimpse of his face and the question was unthinkingly put forth. "And what happened to you?"

The hunter was sporting a bruise on one cheekbone, and several bloody scratches on his throat. His clothes, also, were much different than what he usually wore – dark brown breeches and a white shirt, open at the throat since it appeared to be a bit on the small side.

"I found something in the woods," the hunter began, and then briefly explained about the bodies and warding lines. Despite his care, Carl paled halfway through the tale, and looked quite sick by the time he was finished.

"Is that all?" the friar inquired faintly.

The hunter glanced uncomfortably away. "Not quite." He reached into his pocket and brought out the parchments he had procured, while relating the story of the fight to Carl.

"And you think that may have something to do with it," Carl stated, gesturing to the parchments. They had unfrozen, and Gabriel was using the edge of his sleeve to dab the damp packets dry.

"Not exactly," Van Helsing replied.

"Hmm." Carl came forward then, his inborn curiosity gradually overcoming his sense of disgust. "It's vellum."

"Yes," Gabriel murmured. Now that he was able to examine the cloth, however, it felt strangely thin and tissue-like, much more delicate than he had expected. For all its value, vellum was truly tough material, made from calfskin and able to withstand the ravages of time.

Unless this wasn't vellum, precisely.

With deep trepidation, he drew his fingers slowly away from the three packets resting on the wood, grasping Carl's wrist when the scientist leant forward for a closer look.

"What?"

"Don't. Just for a moment," Gabriel whispered, chasing a fleeting memory. He reached out and with gently laid two fingers against one of the packets, barely touching the surface as he stretched _beyond_ . . . .

He was flooded with emotion, swamped by the raw pain and confused fear, overcome with a lethargy that wound sensuously through every thought. Strange, cloying apathy smothered every thought of self-preservation or resolve, wrapping his agony in strips of disinterest.

He pulled away with a muffled gasp. The warding lines had been nothing like this.

"What, what is it?" Carl hissed as the hunter stumbled back a step.

Gabriel straightened, snarled through clenched teeth, "The parchment was made from human skin." Carl went so white so fast that Gabriel pushed him gently to sit on the bed. "Most likely," the hunter continued grimly, "the skin removed from each individual was replaced inside."

Carl pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, groaning deep in his throat.

"But why?" the hunter brooded, approaching the table. "Unless . . . ." He used the tips of his fingers this time, carefully testing the creases in the packets, and he began to painstakingly unfold the first he had found.

He smoothed the sheet out over the wood, taking care not to pull the fragile parchment. Spiky, runic writing in orderly lines filled the paper.

Carl's eyes caught on a few figures here and there that looked vaguely familiar, but he could make nothing of it. "It looks like cuneiform," he said doubtfully.

"Close," the hunter murmured. Surprised, Carl glanced over at Gabriel to see the hunter's eyes flicking back and forth across the page.

"You can read it?" He was admittedly shocked.

"I can." Gabriel was absorbed in whatever he was pulling off the page, and Carl waited with poorly concealed impatience for him to finish. By the time he had done so, however, Gabriel was white to the lips and lightly covered with a sheen of sweat. "It's a binding," he said before Carl could ask. "In Old Persian. One of the three languages that the Behistun inscription is composed of."

"That's the second time you've mentioned it," Carl commented. "What is it?"

Gabriel shrugged. "It's not very important, really. It's something like the Rosetta Stone, but for the now-extinct languages of Elamite, Babylonian, and Old Persian. It tells the story of Darius I, and his ascension to power over the Persian Empire. I recalled it simply because the language was only recently re-deciphered." And for the fact that it was possibly the first written description of impalement, inaccessibly carved into the side of a mountain.

"Really?" Carl was intrigued.

"1838," Gabriel confirmed, eyes never leaving the parchment.

"So what does this say?" Carl asked, once again returning his attention to the paper. Out of the corner of his eye, the words had seemed to crawl hypnotically across the page, twisting and shimmering. He stared at the black lines in the golden light, almost daring them to shift before his view.

"It's a binding," Gabriel repeated, pushing errant black locks back from his face. "To contain something of great power – but I don't know what. Whoever wrote this muddled the translation, and took dangerous shortcuts in both learning and writing the language. But I daren't read it aloud. Even with the obvious mistakes," here the hunter pointed to several places in the script, "it still holds power."

"Dangerous shortcuts?" Carl asked warily. God only knew what _that_ could mean.

"It's clear to me that whoever wrote this didn't know quite what they were doing," Gabriel explained crossly, glaring at the parchment. "It's exceedingly sloppy, and dangerously inaccurate, but coupled with the four other inscriptions and the sacrifice, it would have the ability to contain a being of considerable power. Most worryingly, though, is the fact that it's missing the seal."

"Seal?"

Gabriel took pity on Carl's confusion. "The true name of the sacrifice, and the true name of the being that whoever wrote this wished to confine."

"Is there any indication of who wrote it?" Carl knew the hunter would probably have told him already, but he had to ask.

"No. More importantly," Gabriel added grimly, "what are they doing?" He lifted the parchment carefully, so that the light shone through it as he examined it.

Carl noted some marks that didn't seem to flow with the writing on the page, and a thought struck him. "Turn it over!"

Without question, the hunter did so, and both men froze. The words that leapt out at them had been hidden in a fold of the parchment, but were easily decipherable to both as they were written in English. Two words, only. A name. _Anthony Austin_.

"There it is," the hunter breathed, the light of understanding shining in his eyes. "The seal on the binding. The name of the victim."

Carl turned horrified eyes to his friend. "A hunting accident? _What were they hunting?_"

"I wonder if that's what Warren Gray was trying to find out," Gabriel responded bleakly.

"Warren Gray . . . " Carl couldn't take his eyes off the remaining packets, the words coming faster, now, with fear. "He never reported back after January twenty-third, Gabriel. He disappeared – and we have only Mayor Hastings' word to the town that he returned to Kent. No one's heard from him since."

Gabriel was already reaching for another parchment, and the friar grabbed the remaining packet. "I couldn't get close to the eastern sacrifice," Van Helsing rapidly pointed out. "There must be one in the south, but I was attacked before -"

The first uncovered name meant nothing to them. He must have been a villager, but neither had so far heard of his death. "Henry Zimmerman," Carl revealed, dropping the parchment as if it was distasteful to touch.

The second, however, was far more familiar. "Warren Gray," Gabriel sighed, and the two stared at the name for a moment before the hunter reached out to turn all the parchments over. "What are you doing?" Carl's curiosity surfaced once again after a few minutes of silence.

Gabriel's eyes were flicking between the sheets, checking and rereading whatever was contained on the gruesome paper. Eyes remained fastened on the writing as he replied. "Just checking. Each of these papers was probably written by the same person, but all are different; some are more complete, more detailed, missing some of mistakes in favor of new ones." Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust. "This one," he tapped Henry Zimmerman's sheet. "And this one," the hunter indicated the one with Warren Gray's name inscribed on the back. "Austins' seems much rougher, even the writing looks – less practiced. I would guess a considerable amount of time passed between these. It would have to have been at least a month."

"A month? How long have these bodies been out there?" Carl hissed, abruptly remembering that his host slept one thin wall away.

Gabriel shrugged. "It's difficult to tell – all the bodies I saw were frozen stiff, and it was hard to tell how long they had been exposed to the elements."

"So, they could have been up since the beginning of winter, and we would have no way to tell," Carl surmised dispiritedly. He sat down again on the bed, having been pulled from it by his insatiable curiosity despite the hunter's obvious worry. He had come closer to passing out at the unspeakable revelations than he was willing to admit. "Oh!" With a sudden sound of surprise, Carl remembered that he hadn't yet told the hunter of the conversation he had overheard after the previous night's meeting. He was treated to a thoughtful stare as he finished recounting the tale.

"So, someone _felt_ the warding lines being breached? More than one person. And they knew where to go."

"It certainly appears so." A yawn rose up, and was only barely stifled. Gabriel saw the motion, however, and began re-folding the parchments.

"I want you to keep these on you," Gabriel told him seriously. "Be on your guard, as well. We'll need to meet later, in the center of town, but if we're seen exchanging anything attention will be drawn to you that I would rather avoid, for now."

"You're back to the Pardoes', then?" Carl asked around a yawn, the last few syllables swallowed whole.

Van Helsing smiled. "Yes. With any luck, they're still abed."

Carl looked at the hunter critically as Gabriel tucked the parchments into a pocket of the friar's robes, which were neatly hanging on a hook behind the door. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some," the hunter touched his head briefly, and Carl read the message in that.

"Unconsciousness is not rest," he responded tartly. "Are you hurt?" He could see Gabriel's obvious fatigue in the set of his shoulders, and the openness of his concern. There were shadows under his eyes and lines of weariness in the tight set of his mouth.

Gabriel brushed off his concern. "Bumps and bruises. I'll be able to rest at the Pardoes, for a bit," he soothed, moving to the window and lifting the latch.

"Shut the window before you go, would you?"

Gabriel heard the request as he slipped out, and carefully slid the window closed. He heard the latch fall into place on the other side, and making certain he left no obvious tracks, he slipped away through the town.

When he slipped into the Pardoes' home, he discovered to his relief that they were indeed still asleep. He had seen signs of life beginning once more, with smoke rising from chimneys and lights shining out into the dark, from other houses down the street.

He crept up the stairs and into his room, just as he heard faint voices from Mr. and Mrs. Pardoe's bedroom. Stripping quickly, he exchanged Anthony Austin's clothes for his own. He was almost fully dressed when someone knocked on the door, and Kevin Pardoe stuck his head in. "Good morning," he grunted genially. "Sleep well?"

Gabriel threw him a brief smile, nodded.

"Breakfast will be on shortly," Pardoe informed him, before closing the door and clumping down the hallway.

Gabriel tugged down his black shirt before pulling on a dark grey sweater almost identical to the one he had been wearing the day before. Feeling somehow safer, he made his way, panther-like, to the kitchen and seated himself.

"Tea?" asked Mrs. Pardoe cheerfully as she bustled about with plates and food. "Chamomile," she decided upon looking at him.

"Thank you." Gabriel was somewhat at a loss on how to deal with such forward hospitality, and the best he could manage was somewhat surprised acceptance.

"I make my own blends fresh," Mrs. Pardoe proudly informed him as she put a pot on to boil. "Grow the herbs myself, year round."

"Louisa," Mr. Pardoe interrupted, saving Gabriel from having to come up with a response. "Is there any more of that strawberry preserve?" He gave the hunter a discreet wink, and a small smile.

"No, dear, we're out," Mrs. Pardoe replied, placing a cup of tea in front of the hunter, her husband, and herself. "Most of the other people in town buy their coffee from the General Store," she spoke to the table at large. "But I've always preferred tea, especially in the winter. Now, Kevin, would you like me to pick up another jar of preserve today?"

The tea, like all the food Gabriel had eaten so far at the Pardoes', was strongly flavored, almost overpoweringly so. He sipped more for politeness' sake than anything else. Mrs. Pardoe turned her attention to her husband then, who mentioned to Gabriel that he was senior Projects Manager for Boxborough's business with the Order, and that he was meeting with Carl later in the morning. The hunter nodded and answered in all the right places, increasingly wishing for the meal to be over. It was half an hour later before the three bade one another affable farewells, and went their separate ways.

Gabriel left the house with several goals in mind. He was sidetracked, however, by the smithy. As he passed, under the dim of the hammers keen ears heard a lowly voiced comment, followed by rude laughter.

Faster than thought, a circular spinning Tojo blade whipped through the air, and the sound of a hammer falling to the ground was the only noise heard. Ancell was neatly pinned to the wooden wall of the smithy, for the blade had neatly snagged his clothing and caught him fast, barely scratching the skin beneath.

A few shocked whispers from onlookers made their way to Gabriel's ears, but he ignored them.

" – so fast!"

"Where did the blade come from?"

"I believe," he stared evenly at Ancell, a steely glint in his eyes, "that you said something to me?"

Ancell couldn't rip himself free – sharp edges rested perilously close to his throat and nearly half the blade was firmly embedded in the stout smithy wall. But his eyes promised retribution, glowering hotly at Van Helsing.

"No?" the hunter demanded, glancing over at the dumbfounded apprentice. Luke Rosenthal's face was puffy, his nose looking as if it had been broken recently. "You should be more careful," Gabriel said softly, but it was impossible to tell which of the two men he was speaking to. It might have been both.

Reaching out, he pulled his blade free from the wall effortlessly, to the obvious chagrin of the blacksmith. Turning his back, the hunter began to walk away. The few watchers began to breathe again.

"Coward!" Ancell spat, and the ringing shout through the street caused all, Gabriel at the foremost, to freeze in their tracks.

He turned abruptly on his heel to face them. "Coward?" the hunter asked, almost pensively. And then he did something no one expected – he laughed softly. "Who is the coward? The man who walks away from a fight? Or one who takes affront at the mere presence of another, who attacks someone barely half his size, and instead of justly finishing the fight, throws him into the millpond like a scrapping child?" he hurled the words derisively at Ancell, whose face reddened visibly by the moment. "No," Gabriel murmured. "_I_ am not the coward here."

He turned to leave, and got two steps before he felt a presence behind him. Whirling with incredible speed, he caught the blow aimed at his head and twisted brutally. Ancell's face crumpled in agony as bones were pressed nearly to the breaking point; he moved to hit the hunter with the opposite hand. And found the same blade that had nearly killed him moments before a hairsbreadth from his throat.

"Next time," Gabriel breathed, staring Ancell down, "I _will_ kill you."

"You will wish you had never stayed your hand," the burly blacksmith snarled, complete hatred sloughing off him in waves.

Gabriel merely snorted, raising a brow, and pushed the man away. Ancell stumbled back, nearly tripping, as he cradled his right wrist. Bruises were already rising on the flesh. He plodded slowly back to the shelter of the smithy, panting in pain.

When Gabriel turned around, the blade had mysteriously disappeared from wherever he had summoned it, and the gawkers on the street were carefully avoiding his gaze.

No one hindered him as he traversed the street, eyes following him until he rounded the corner and was lost from sight.

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Well, now that things are starting to happen, I thought it might be a good time to let all my readers know that at the end of this week, I'll be leaving on a 7-day vacation. Ch. 20 is in the works, so whether or not I get all that lot up and posted before I leave is really up to you. Review, let me know!


	18. Chapter 18

Carl was amazed at the ingenuity of the people of Boxborough. He was in the workshop sequestered behind the smithy, and had been there ever since Kevin Pardoe had arrived at Schoen's to guide him there.

The space was small but well-lit, excruciatingly organized, and almost painfully clean. There were separate tables and chairs for each of the five weapons currently in various stages of assembly; most were guns of some sort, but there was one tool that almost harkened back to the earliest days of man – a javelin and spear-thrower. These, Pardoe explained, were the pet projects of various members of the community. What this lab did best was create improved modifications on already-existing weapons. They had an enormous cache secreted somewhere in the town. Since the Civil War, the leaders of Boxborough had been discreetly stockpiling extra weapons, captured arms, anything they thought might be useful, under the pretense of restocking the local militia. Many orders were shipped to different locations, after which townspeople would be sent to retrieve them. The system was sound, and continued to work even now.

As a result, the people of Boxborough had made improvements on long-range sniper rifles, and were moving easily into the industrial age. They had developed a compound very close to the Glycerin 48 that was being produced in the Vatican. However, it was much more volatile and extremely dangerous; so much so, Pardoe explained, that they kept it in a separate bunker to the north of the town.

Pardoe guided him through the various workstations set up against the walls of the room, allowing the workers at each table to describe their current projects. There were several attempts to replicate weapons of Oriental origin. Throwing stars made of silver amongst the foremost of these – but the metallurgists were running into difficulties with the balance there, as well. Most of the alloys they concocted with the appropriate amount of silver were too soft to be of real use. The _shuriken_ stars were being used in their traditional role, the man sharpening them explained; as a diversionary, tactical weapon designed to harass the enemy, not as a long-range projectile. Most of the ones Carl handled had only four points. There were several with six, but these _shuriken_ were more difficult to wield, and the candidates training with them had had little luck. There were also several _kama_; sickle-shaped blades with a two-foot haft, for use against war axes and swords. One designer was even experimenting with _kusarigama_ – a sickle blade on a metal chain, with a heavy weight on the end. He was fired with enthusiasm, which made up for his abysmal luck at using the weapon functionally.

Carl was impressed by their willingness to go beyond the tried and true methods, to find something that could be better by looking in different places and incorporating different influences. He said so, and Pardoe beamed at the praise. The friar spotted smiles on the faces of several nearby workers.

There was even an ahlspiess, which Luke Rosenthal – Ancell's apprentice – was working on. It was a thrusting spear about seven feet long, three of which composed the shaft. It had a single thin prong, efficient and balanced. Most of what Carl knew of these weapons came from archival documents from 15th century Germany. It was a magnificent piece. The apprentice was covering the functional steel core with plated silver, and smiled under a broken nose at Carl as the friar lauded his work.

Pardoe was quite proud of their progress, and the friar saw several of the men he had spoken with at the previous night's meeting hard at work. These men, though, were working with more modern weaponry – firearms, to be precise. There were pieces of several Winchester rifles, the .32-20 and the .38-55, both developed earlier in the decade, scattered across several workbenches. A shortish man with black hair and eyes was utterly absorbed in an examination of the sleek Krag-Jørgensen, a bolt-action repeating rifle of Norwegian design. The talk of the room, however, was the Mauser 1888 Commision Rifle, also a bolt-action repeating rifle, which had only recently arrived. Even Pardoe waxed enthusiastic about these guns; the most pressing problem with them, however, was that their ammunition rounded at the bullet's head, instead of tapering to a point, which according to Pardoe was the widely preferred form for a bullet. Already there was excited talk and rough designs of the modifications needed for the gun to be compatible with more deadly ammunition.

The morning seemed to fly by as Carl worked with each of the developed weapons in turn, speaking eagerly with the designers. The friar declined an offer of lunch in favor of more time testing the Mauser, and soon found himself alone in the shop. After twenty more minutes of working, however, the growling in his stomach could no longer be ignored. Glancing about the deserted workroom, he replaced the weapon exactly as he had found it, and left by the back of the building. He was about to round the smithy on his way to the General Store, when once more voices caught his ear and he paused before turning the corner.

"Tell Derek that I believe the situation will turn in our favor." That was Pardoe, and even through the wall Carl could hear his smugness. "He won't refuse our offer, not now that he's seen part of what's really going on."

"I hope not." Carl's eyes widened. This was one of the voices he had heard behind the meetinghouse – he was sure of it! A quick peek left him pressed against the wall in fright. Ancell. Of course. No one else could display such casual hostility; not even Gabriel exuded such black menace. "What about the others?"

Pardoe snorted. "Well, you took care of the darkie." The derision in his voice wasn't something Carl would have expected from the man.

"For now," Ancell interrupted, growling with satisfaction tinged with caution.

"For now," Pardoe agreed amiably. He didn't sound in the least concerned, however. "As for the hunter -"

A sharp clang cut him off, and Carl jumped.

"Control yourself," snapped a third voice, much closer than the other two. That voice was markedly familiar to Carl; it was his host, Schoen. Dread gripped him. "The anger is good. It will give you energy, determination. But if you don't contain it, it will rule you. And then, Robert, you will die."

There was a frustrated breath, half snarl, half sigh. "Yes."

A short pause, filled only with the noise of the smithy – hungry flames and the dim clattering of tools as Ancell tidied the forge. "As I was saying," Pardoe continued, much more guardedly. "The hunter is a quandary."

"How so?" Schoen murmured, calculation and thoughtfulness dripping from every syllable. Carl didn't have to see him to visualize the cunning flashing in his eyes.

A hefty grunt. "Well, Louisa's been slipping some of her home blend into his food, ever since he started staying with us." Carl's eyes widened, his breath coming in short, silent gasps. Gabriel had been drugged – the tiredness, the dizzy spells he had seen – what had they given him? "From what I understand, it's mostly St. John's Wort, with a few little additives to keep him from noticing too many effects. It didn't seem to be working at first. So she upped it, to the point where it should have had him passed out in the street." Carl's shock was quickly turning to anger, and fear. He could hear Pardoe's puzzlement, and took grim satisfaction from it. "It didn't seem to work at all, and Louisa can't figure it out. She tested it on one of the cows. Damn animal hasn't known whether it was coming or going for the past two days." A snort of laughter from the others interrupted him, but the Senior Projects Manager continued pensively. "I can't figure it."

"He's the Vatican's most successful hunter," Schoen pointed out, with something akin to pride. "A dangerous man – the most wanted in Europe. It makes sense that he'll have trained his body to fight off poisons and such."

Carl felt his heart skip a beat. _Poisons?_

"It wasn't poison," Pardoe objected immediately. "Just a few herbs, to throw him off-balance a bit."

"He's _not_ off-balance at all," Ancell grumbled darkly. "_I_ can attest to that; I looked death in the eye this morn. I told you what happened. And if he is -"

"Still, his resilience does him credit," Schoen murmured, cutting off his apprentice without a blink. The strange sense of pride was evident again, pervading his tone. "When he joins us – do you know how much more effective we'll be?"

Carl could hear it – the frightening intensity that had so overwhelmed him during the first conversation he had truly had with his host. Now, he had a better idea of what they were doing, but the _why_ still eluded him. And he was trembling with the revelations.

"When they _all_ do," Pardoe added. He sighed in admiration. "I got to see the boy work today – mind like a whip and the know-how to match! From what I hear tell, he lived in Jersey until one of the nearby members of the Order saw his potential, whisked him off to Rome. Stole him right out from under us, practically."

"Don't be bitter," Schoen said at the same time Carl realized that they were talking about _him_. "He's had better education there than we would have been able to give him, thirteen, fifteen years ago. And now _we_ reap the rewards."

"True," Ancell rumbled. "Hastings was just getting into his stride then. There's no way we would have been prepared. We're still a ways off of our own proper facilities, and there's no way round it."

There was a silence, and Carl started in fear. Confident that he had heard enough for now, and worried that someone would see him – it was broad daylight – he turned and left. In doing so, he missed the end of the conversation, something he would later come to regret.

A short pause, then.

"So, when are you going to make the offer?" Schoen was idly curious, leaning against the wall of the smithy. The master trainer was fingering the deep gouge in the wall where Gabriel's Tojo blade had lodged. Faint, rust-colored stains smudged the pads of his fingers, and he sniffed at them questioningly.

"Soon. Tonight, if I can catch him alone," Pardoe sighed. "Van Helsing is suspicious – he keeps a steady watch over his people, even if they don't know it."

"He knows it," Schoen affirmed. "And that's all that matters." He gestured with his fingers to Ancell. "Blood?" He sounded vaguely surprised.

"Mine," Ancell admitted, pulling the collar of his filthy shirt to expose his shoulder. Three deep scratches had nicked through the skin to muscle. Schoen smiled at the sight. "He's more off-balance than you think," he murmured contemplatively.

Ancell understood immediately. No one with Gabriel's skill hit anything but what they wanted to, anything but what they aimed at. If the hunter had wanted to hit him, he was a very large man, a slow-moving target. The blacksmith would have spilled more blood than was evident. "Not enough," Ancell warned his trainer.

"No. But maybe just enough."

"Speaking of which, where is he?"

Ancell shrugged heavy shoulders. "I don't know," he answered Pardoe laconically.

"I haven't seen him all day. Most likely, he's doing his job," Schoen told him, without an ounce of concern.

"Is it likely you'll run into him, be able to distract him?" Pardoe was admittedly worried; he was the only one among the men who knew the force of the drugs that were having no visible effect on Van Helsing. As such, he was appropriately troubled.

"Not I," Schoen sneered distastefully. "Derek has personally put me to the task of collecting a team to clear out the forest. The containment's done for, now." He leant against the wall in thought. Still, he felt curious pride in the hunter instead of the rage the others were clearly embroiled in. "It may have filled its purpose; we'll know later. For now, he's setting a warding line along the pentacle's points, marking it out. It will be done before night."

"Good," Ancell breathed. "I'll rest easy, knowing that." He paused, but his actions were carefully deliberate and utterly controlled when he asked the question, despite the white knuckles locked around the bellows' handle. "What about Van Hesling?"

Schoen snorted, dismissing the obvious tension in his student. "We know you hate him, Robert. But realize this – he's in the dark about our true calling, and is still under the Vatican's not-inconsiderable influence. He's only acting in the way he sees fit; he can't be expected to know what we're doing here. It would be a problem if he did. When he joins us, you'll see – he's a force beyond reckoning, I wager. If you can put aside your hate then, I foresee a great friendship between the two of you."

Ancell snorted, a deeply scornful sound. "You're too certain."

"The two of you are very alike," Schoen retorted calmly.

"I don't think you know him as well as you think you do," Pardoe interrupted. "He's utterly convinced of the rightness of his actions; he kills people because of his belief!"

"And how, exactly, does that make him different from us?" Schoen cut him off with an icy smile.

Pardoe's mouth closed slowly, a hot retort dying on his tongue.

"Good point," Ancell laughed. "Maybe we aren't so different after all."

"Aye," Pardoe murmured, bright eyes fixed on Schoen. "But if he's as stubborn as you, Robert, he'll be difficult to convince."

"Don't worry," Schoen replied serenely. "I have a solution to that problem."

"Aye," Ancell said abruptly, mouth tight. "I can listen well too, when I must."

"Robert simply required the proper _motivation,_ is that not so?" Schoen was cruelly smug as he goaded the blacksmith. Ancell nodded, and his stiff face warned Pardoe against questioning any further into that line. He hastily changed the subject.

"That leaves only the third." Pardoe was sitting on a bench near the forge, and at this he leant back towards the fire's welcoming heat. "Lamar. What are we to do with him?"

Schoen snorted. "Hastings hasn't told me anything about him. I can't imagine he'll be of much use, outside the obvious."

"He was sent on this mission for his skills," Pardoe felt obligated to point out.

"He was sent on this mission because the hunter is unpredictable, the friar's a free thinker, and Seaton is leery of what they'll do given free reign," Schoen replied shortly. "It's no secret that the man Robert nearly killed is the closest thing to a right hand that the Order's new head has. I'm concerned about what may happen if Seaton turns his attention to us."

Ancell waved his concerns away. "He's new to the position; he'll be cautious."

Schoen glared hotly at his apprentice. Such an expression on the stick-thin man shouldn't have been enough to make a larger, stronger, younger man flinch, but it did. The line between apparent equals sprang into existence from nowhere, and the divide was insurmountable. Ancell cowered back against the flames, recovering himself in a moment to tend the fire. "Obviously, you haven't read the reports," Schoen snapped in disappointed disgust. "Gaspar Seaton is a fighter, in his own way. And that could spell trouble if we fail here. We've already brought too much attention to ourselves, and it can't be blamed entirely on Gray." Ancell winced, his hands stilling for a moment in feeding the fire. Anyone with less sharp eyes would have missed the motion, but Schoen's gaze narrowed.

"True," Pardoe conceded with a sigh, drawing attention from the heated interplay between master and pupil. The heavy atmosphere inside the smithy lessened slightly.

"He'll be given a chance to prove his usefulness if he accepts the offer," Schoen intoned, suddenly appearing weary of the entire debate. "You know how Hastings operates by now, or at the very least, you should! If Lamar has no unique skills – there is a great deal of damage that needs to be repaired. And we cannot in truth spare anyone else for the . . . task." Schoen heaved a sigh. "We won't know anymore, can't do anymore, until we contain the situation, explain, and make the offer. Speculation is a waste of time at this point."

Ancell grunted in acknowledgement, seemingly recovered from his brush with his teacher's volatile temper. "We shall have to wait and see then," he offered conciliatorily.

"Yes," Pardoe murmured, his eyes focused on some far-distant goal, "I suppose we shall."

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So, a little shorter than the normal fare, but I trust things are a little clearer. Though not too clear . . . stay tuned! More reviews faster updating!


	19. Chapter 19

Carl sped down the path, almost frantic with worry. He'd crept quietly away from the smithy, evaded the returning designers, and circled around the streets, searching for the hunter. After scouring the entirety of Boxborough, he hadn't found Gabriel, and there was now only one place he could check. At least, before he had to venture into the woods once more. The thought was enough that he allowed himself a tiny shudder before steeling his resolve. It was funny, he mused as he hastily navigated a turn in the path, how he didn't notice the bitter weather much anymore. The chill of apprehension lying so much closer to his bones drowned out any superficial cold.

He raced up to the Widow's home, pulling up short before the door and wasting a thin moment composing himself. When he was certain he didn't look as panicked as he felt, he tapped hurriedly on the door. And again. And once more –

The wood gave under his knuckles, pulled back as the door opened. "Carl," Ben said, surprised. The black lab pushed his way into the doorjamb, looking up at the friar with dark, moist eyes.

"Is Gabriel here?" Carl could not be bothered with wasting time on pleasantries.

"No," Ben replied, exchanging a wary glance with Ned. "We haven't seen him since early, this morning. Why? Is he missing?"

"Ben?"

The boy half-turned on hearing his name being called. "Yes, Mathilde?"

"Who's at the door?" the woman asked, coming forward. Carl could see that the Widow was holding a damp cloth and a towel – she had been tending to Lamar.

Ben opened the door wider. "It's Carl."

Mathilde smiled quizzically at him. "Carl, what an unexpected pleasure. Come in."

"I can't stay for long," the friar panted worriedly. Something caught his eye, however, sidetracking him completely. Dark eyes, glittering a little from fever, were focused on him. "Lamar!"

The Jerusalemite managed a smile. He was clearly feeling awful, but this was the first time he had been properly conscious for more than a few minutes in the nearly two days he had been ill. The expression faded, however, after a few minutes scrutinizing Carl's features. "What's wrong?" the weak man asked urgently.

Carl's face tightened. "I don't have the time to explain," he said cryptically, "but it's bad. And I can't find Gabriel."

Mathilde's worried eyes met Ben's. "I haven't seen him since early this morning," she said sorrowfully. "I'm sorry."

Carl shook his head once. "I saw him, right after he left from your house. I have reason to believe he ran into Robert Ancell some time later this morning." He matched Lamar's worried eyes with an even gaze. "Both walked away, apparently, though there may have been some harsh words exchanged."

"How do you know this?" Mathilde asked, puzzled. Ben looked at Ned, and the two seemed to be speaking without words.

"I overheard part of a conversation," Carl replied evenly.

"Carl," Ben interrupted. "Ned and I can help you."

"You can?" The question was guardedly eager, rather than skeptical.

"Ned's had some experience tracking," Ben explained.

Mathilde's worried gaze transferred to Ben and Ned. They, in turn, gave her pleading looks. "We can help," Ben insisted lowly, determination in his stance. Ned barked once in agreement.

Mathilde thought for a moment, then gave a tight-lipped nod. "Off with you, then," she murmured. "Put on your coat, go."

The youth rushed into his coat and shoes, but as he pulled them on and started for the door, there was a solid knock against the wood. Carl whipped around to stare at Mathilde.

"I'm not expecting anyone," she whispered.

"Mama? Where's Ben going?" Tanya asked reasonably, coming into the room for the first time. Her voice was light and young, sweet to the ears and endearingly innocent.

"Ned and I are going out for a bit, Tanya," the towheaded lad soothed, gently smoothing the wavy blonde hair. "Nothing to worry about. Go back in your room and read some more? Tell me what happens when I come back. I don't want to miss any of the story." Tanya's big brown eyes held Ben's steadily as she nodded.

The little girl had barely closed the door to her room when the knock came again, harder. Mathilde walked to the door, and Carl strode to Ben. "Is there a back door?" he asked quietly.

"In the lean-to," Ben responded. "I -"

Whatever he was going to say was lost in a loud thud, as Mathilde opened the door. The handle was wrenched from her grasp, and the door crashed against the wall with shattering force.

"Robert Ancell!" the woman's indignant cry rang shrilly through the air. "What do you think you're about?"

"I'm sorry, Mathilde," came the rumbling reply, not repentant in the least. "I've some business with the darkie." Ancell was stomping across the room, ignoring everything in his path on his way to Lamar. Carl, Ben and Ned barely registered, and were found unworthy of his attention after he noticed them.

"Robert!" Mathilde hissed. "Your manners are sorely lacking today. Have you been drinking?"

Ancell ignored the demand, stepping into the room. He was followed by his apprentice, Luke Rosenthal, and Kevin Pardoe. "Luke," Mathilde chastised the youth, who was scarcely twenty for all his brawn. "I refuse to believe you're mixed up in this . . . chicanery!"

At this, the youth visibly started. "Chicanery? Marm, I don't hold with trickery of any sort!" His voice was nasal and pained, most probably as a result of his badly broken nose.

"What do you call this?" Mathilde demanded furiously, gesturing to the room. Ancell had approached Lamar, who was hastily pulling his robe up and on, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. "What business could you possibly have with a sick man?"

"Doesn't look too sick to me," Pardoe judged dispassionately. The Senior Project Manager leant just inside the door, which was still open and blowing cold air into the house. Ancell jerked Lamar from his bed, dragging him from the blankets and forcing him to his feet.

"Kevin Pardoe," Mathilde thundered. "I refuse to believe that Louisa knows of this!"

"Mathilde," Kevin held up his hands placatingly, "Just calm down. Hastings just wants to talk to Mr. Al Ghamdi, and -"

"Why can't the mayor come here?" she returned, cutting him off rudely. At that, Ancell and Pardoe froze, exchanging a look before the shorter man began to speak once more.

"And he is in the middle of a project that he must complete. He can't be called away," Pardoe finished, eyeing the woman carefully.

Mathilde snorted, but seemed mollified by the answer. "Can't it wait?" she demanded icily, much to Carl's relief. He had feared she would simply give in. But she was stalwartly defending her patient, and with that all doubts Carl might have had about her dissolved into nothing.

"No," Ancell said, speaking for the first time in a deep, sharp voice. "It can't."

Carl's anger got the best of him. "I don't think so," he snapped, fury sparking in his tone.

Pardoe looked straight at him, and then gave him a cheery smile that was completely at odds with the situation. "Carl," he said warmly, advancing toward the friar. Now behind the Projects Manager, Ancell continued to drag Lamar to the door. "I've been wanting to speak with you."

"Wait! Where are you taking him?" Carl demanded, in no mood for games.

"Calm down," Pardoe responded, as the door slammed shut. Something thudded, hard, into the opposite side of the wood, making the door shake in its frame.

"What was that?" Mathilde demanded, jumping in fright at the sound.

"Nothing, nothing," Pardoe soothed ineffectually. "I just wanted to make sure Carl stayed to hear my proposition, that's all. You don't need to worry. You're perfectly safe in this house."

Carl snorted at that.

"No, please believe me. Mathilde, Tanya, Ben and Ned are perfectly safe here," Pardoe promised earnestly.

"I notice you don't mention Lamar or myself in that," Carl retorted sarcastically, without missing a beat. Motion behind Pardoe caught his eye. It was only with difficulty that he kept his gaze locked with that of the Senior Project Manager; Pardoe's eyes were agleam with an unnerving intensity.

"Well, you don't live here," Pardoe pointed out reasonably.

Carl sighed, glancing to the floor and then up again. "Just tell me, why do you want my friend? What is so important that you must drag him from his sickbed out into the cold, without even shoes?"

"I -"

_Thunk!_

Pardoe dropped, a dead weight, to hit the floor solidly. Carl winced, raising his eyes to meet Ben's. The youth blushed, faintly embarrassed, and lowered the heavy skillet with which he had struck Kevin Pardoe. Carl nudged the downed man onto his back with a foot– he was unconscious and unmoving.

The Widow crouched by Kevin's side, fingers ghosting over the lump rising on the back of his skull. "He'll be fine," Mathilde said after a shocked pause. Then she turned to look at Ben. The youth averted his eyes. "Thank you," she told him softly. He gaped at her for a moment, before a tentative smile snuck onto his face.

"Come on," Carl urged. "You said there was a back door?"

Carl, Ben and Ned left Pardoe in the house; the man was deeply unconscious and likely to remain so for quite awhile. Just to be certain, however, they made sure Mathilde and Tanya were on their way to the town, instructed to take refuge in the church. Slipping out the back, through the lean-to into the yard, Ben and Carl waited while Ned cast about on the ground, sniffing furiously. With a bark, he began trotting south, following a strange, scuffed trail of tracks.

"Look," Ben indicated, pointing to the pattern in the snow. Part of a bare heel was imprinted at one point; toes were visible at another. Carl's lips thinned and he nodded – Ancell was dragging Lamar behind him, moving quickly.

They had traveled for about a hundred yards, trekking further and further into the woods, when Ned stopped, whining.

"What's wrong?" Carl asked impatiently.

"There's another trail cutting crosswise across this one," Ben answered after a moment, pointing off into the brush. Carl could see several bent twigs, disturbance in the snow; the muted signs of passage.

"It's just a deer trail," he dismissed it, ready to continue. They needed to get Lamar away from Ancell, and quickly.

"No," Ben objected. "Ned wouldn't stop unless he knew the scent. It must be Gabriel!"

Hope beat wildly in Carl's chest. "You're sure?" he demanded. Just as he realized that the question really _was_ as inane as it sounded, he had an answer.

"Yes."

Dare he believe it? Carl nodded again, refusing to spend precious time on doubts. "Follow the new trail," he instructed. "Hurry!"

Ben murmured something to Ned, and the dog started to run through the brush. Ben raced along behind, leaving Carl to bring up the rear, swearing under his breath as his robes snarled in brambles, catching and tearing. It was some time on this hurried race before he recognized his surroundings. It had been earlier in the day the last time he had traveled this way. But by the time he realized where they were heading, they were too close to be able to do anything about it. "Ben! Ned! _Stop_!"

It was too late – he saw the youth, a few paces ahead of him, stumble past an all-too-familiar pine tree, into the clearing Carl knew lay beyond. "Don't!" he cried frantically, wanting nothing more in this moment but to prevent Ben from seeing the horror awaiting them. He threw himself past the pine and into the clearing.

Ben and Ned were staring at him, with curiosity and worry in equal measure. Carl's jaw dropped in shock.

The clearing was empty. Where once there was a drawn circle containing a woefully mutilated corpse, there was nothing. Only a hole in the ground where the pole had been, and two dark lines emerging from opposite directions out of the woods, converging at that hole. Carl was staggered by this. Where – where had it _gone?_ He needed to know, almost as much as he fervently wished not to.

Still in a mild state of shock, the friar stumbled over to the lines etched into the snow, staring down at them. Warding lines, he supposed; he hadn't had a good chance to see them before. He'd been concentrating on . . . other things. He approached these lines carefully, remembering what the hunter had said.

Standing for a moment, he followed each one back into the brush with his eyes. They were unbroken, continuing directly through the undergrowth. Mysteriously, no trees were growing on the direct paths the lines took; the friar could see for a shocking distance straight through the forest.

Crouching on the snow, Carl nervously reached out a hand as he had seen the hunter do. But as his fingers reached a point directly above the line, something sparked coldly against his skin. Freezing energy jolted into him, sending him careening backwards into the snow.

Ned barked in alarm

"What was _that_?" Ben's blue eyes were wide, and a little fearful.

Pushing himself to his elbows, Carl rolled onto his feet, reaching his hand out once more. The jolt of energy arced through the air this time, stabbing at flesh and coursing uncomfortably through his arm. Carl jerked his hand away, shaken. "I don't know," the friar grimly answered. The truth was small comfort, and his next words came hard. "Come on. Gabriel's not here – and we don't have any more time." Of that, he was certain. Whatever was going on in Boxborough was coming to a head. They had to get Lamar.

They raced back to the original trail, and Carl nearly plowed into Ben as they stopped abruptly; if not for the Lab's nose, they would have missed it entirely. Returning to the path, they continued on for several tense minutes before Ned came to a halt, barking worriedly. "What, what is it?" Carl was catching his breath; their headlong rush had come to an unexpected pause.

Ben squatted next to Ned, who was snuffling at something on the ground, half-buried in the snow. A paw dug carefully around the snow, claws scraping on metal. The boy whispered something into the dog's ear, nudging the snow away and pulling it free with difficulty. Carl took it numbly. He barely noticed a sharp stinging across his knuckles as he cut himself on a razor-sharp edge. It was one of Gabriel's spinning Tojo blades, discarded and ignored.

"Ned's picked up his scent, but it's very faint. They must have carried him," Ben reported quietly. The dog whined softly.

"We have to hurry," Carl repeated, lifting his eyes from the blade that his fingers didn't seem to want to let go of.

Without another word, the three continued on, this time with caution tempering their haste. They made good time directly south, and walked about two miles along the path before Ben held up an arm, slowing the friar. "We're getting close." These whispered words were the only ones passed between them since they had found the blade.

The three edged forward, prudent caution guiding their slow steps. Moments later, they found themselves on the edge of a clearing. Ben crouched down, Carl peering over his head and through draping pine needles. Below, the boy could hear the friar's breathing speed up. "What's going on?" Ben whispered. He couldn't see; a bedraggled holly bush was obscuring his view. Carl's eyes widened.

"Go back to the house," Carl whispered hoarsely.

"What?"

"Just take Ned and _go_!"

Ben scrambled out from behind the bush, obediently backing away at the uncharacteristic steel in Carl's voice. He kept one hand buried in Ned's ruff. "Come on," he whispered to the dog. "Should I bring help?"

"There is no help," Carl turned from the view of the clearing. Burning grey eyes locked onto the youth's. "Find Mathilde and Tanya. Stay with them. Please," Carl pleaded, openly distressed. Sensing this, Ben nodded, and he and Ned turned back to the path, jogging away. Carl gasped out a sigh of relief as the duo moved out of earshot.

He turned back to the clearing.

It was empty but for a hot, large fire in the middle. Heat trickled into the surrounding forest, sweeping over Carl even fifteen feet away. The wind shifted, bringing the rank smell of burnt meat to his nose. The friar gagged, silently grateful that the boy and dog had gone. He could see uprooted poles with bodies still speared on them fueling the fire. They looked gruesomely like oversized roasts, smoking and black.

To the left, mere feet from the edges of the coals, Lamar was huddled on the ground. He clutched the blanket around himself as he hunkered down in the snow. Carl recognized the dark line tracing a six-foot circle around him. No one else was in sight.

He waited a long moment, searching desperately for any sign of Ancell, or other townspeople. Seeing no one, he crept from the brush and into the open. Almost as soon as he left the protection of the undergrowth behind, Lamar's eyes were following his every move; but he didn't speak, overcome with a coughing fit that he was trying hard to stifle.

"Lamar!" Carl hissed as he crept closer. The Jerusalemite glanced to his left, to something behind the fire. Flames, licking hungrily over poles and blackened corpses, blocked Carl's view. It was only once he was almost touching the warding line confining Lamar that he understood.

There was a second cell bounded by a warding line not far from Lamar. Inside, distressingly motionless, Van Hesling was lying crumpled on his back. An outstretched hand lay alarmingly close to the warding line; six feet was barely enough space for the tall man. The hunter's upturned face was chalk-white, lashes dark against pale cheekbones. His chest rose and fell shallowly; Gabriel was barely breathing.

Rustling and sudden voices had the friar whirling in a panic. Too late. The lanky, sticklike figure of his host pushed through the bushes on the far side of the hunter's cell, jerking to an abrupt halt. Schoen was followed by Hastings, who was talking animatedly with Ancell. The mayor's voice trailed into silence as the three laid eyes on the friar.

Their time had run out.

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Well, I am off to pack; then its sun, surf and sand for me! Ch. 20 is ready and waiting for you on my return, dependant on the state of my inbox, of course. Enjoy!


	20. Chapter 20

Hastings was the one to step forward, light eyes unnervingly glued to Carl's face. The friar had stared down a vampiress – this man didn't scare him. Much. There was something in Hastings' knowing gaze the made him feel as if the man was peering into his very soul, and measuring what he saw. It made his skin crawl.

"Carl," he began, turning his head amiably about as if he were searching for something. Someone. "Would Kevin Pardoe happen to be nearby?"

It was not what he was expecting. "No," Carl stuttered the word, standing between the circular warding cells confining his two friends; one of which was unconscious, and the other nearly so.

Hastings took a step forward. "I don't suppose he -" Carl stumbled back. "No, I suppose not," the Mayor finished wryly. He continued to advance carefully toward the friar, who matched him, retreating step for step. Carl didn't realize Hastings was banking on this until he was grasped from behind by strong arms. A squeak, and a short struggle, proved to the friar that he was well and truly caught. Ancell secured his arms with little difficulty.

Schoen was giving him an appraising stare as he spoke for the first time. "Did they teach you _no_ hand-to-hand at the Vatican, boy?" His eyes then traveled to the hunter, whose breathing was still dangerously faint. "I expected more."

Carl felt heat blossom on his face. Gabriel _had_ worked with him, teaching him self-defense techniques as they whiled away their time on the ship to America. "It didn't stick," was what he defiantly threw back at the training master.

Schoen then did something strange; he laughed, and clapped Ancell on the shoulder. The big blacksmith was restraining the friar – heavy hands on his shoulders was enough. "He has spirit," he smiled. "There's hope for you yet," he told Carl. The friar rather wished there wasn't.

"That being the case," Hastings smoothly entered the conversation, "I'd like to know just where Pardoe is. Carl?" His voice was light, almost pleasant, but for the razor edged steel gliding through each word. Something told Carl that this tone boded ill for the Senior Projects Manager.

"I'm here," answered a cold voice before Carl could speak. The friar's heart skipped a beat at the tone, and then sank as the speaker irritably batted branches out of the way, entering the clearing. He had one hand firmly on Ben's shoulder, the other dragging Ned alongside by the collar. "And I found a few travelers on the path."

Hastings frowned mightily. Ben, however, had frightened, horrified eyes fixed on the fire and the shapes burning within it. The mayor moved to the boy, and Carl's heart jumped into his throat. A strangled "No!" burst from his throat. "Get away from him!" the friar snarled fiercely. The boy should not be here, seeing this. It was wrong. And Hastings' proximity to the youth had Carl straining against Ancell's restraints, fearful for his young friend.

Hastings glowered at the friar. "I'm not going to hurt him. What do you take me for?"

Carl glared at the man, and deliberately looked to the fire's ghastly fuel, before turning accusing eyes on the mayor.

"He won't hurt the lad," Ancell rumbled from behind him.

"I have the words of a murderer and a coward," Carl spat sarcastically, yanking and tugging as Ancell's restraining hands. "Forgive me if I don't put much stock in your honor." The fingers digging into his arms tightened with bruising force. "Ah!" he gasped.

Schoen glanced over, eyes hard. "Ancell," he warned softly.

The grip loosened, but Carl's attention was locked on Hastings, bent over and speaking gently to Ben. "Ben? Ben lad, look at me. Take your eyes from the fire, Ben. That's a boy, good. There's nothing to fear, Ben -" he reached out a hand to smooth back the hair from Ben's eyes, but the youth flinched away. Ned growled threateningly. Hastings' hand stopped, and a sad expression seemed to cross his face before it was overtaken by impartial neutrality. "Pardoe," he ordered, stretching upright. "I want you to take Ben and Ned back to the Austin home. They'll be safe there. Make sure Mathilde and Tanya are there as well." Eyes conveyed a message that Carl saw, but couldn't decipher. "We need to have an – adult conversation." Hastings glanced at Ben, choosing his words carefully. "I'll deal with you later." A world of anger in that sentence, boiled down to a few menacing words. "Jason, if you would be so good?"

Pardoe nodded, his face now ashen, and within moments had guided an unresisting boy and an increasingly resistant Labrador out of the clearing, heading back to the Widow's. Schoen escorted him, dogging his every step as they were swallowed up by the trees.

"Now," Hastings' words redirected Carl's attention to the mayor, who was swiftly approaching. "I'd like to speak with you, Mr. Weldon, about a matter of some importance. I'd like to make you an offer, to join our little group."

"Are you mad?" The disbelieving question bounced off the unflappable man before him with almost no reaction.

"I see I'm going to have to explain myself a bit more clearly," Hastings smiled genially.

Carl's jaw was working in shock.

"Robert, if you would be so kind?" Hastings drew a silver flask from inside his large, furred greatcoat, leading the way to the opposite side of the hunter from Lamar, and stopping about four feet away from the warding line. Schoen followed, a lanky, ghostlike presence. "That will do nicely."

Ancell stopped where directed, his hands still firmly preventing the friar from getting loose. "What are you doing?" Carl demanded, craning his neck around to try to see what Hastings was up to.

The mayor unstopped the flask, which smoked hotly in the cold. Schoen stepped back, far out of the way. Hastings began behind them, moving surely backwards as a steady stream of liquid spilled from the flask. It was viscous and black, and Carl realized as the Mayor circled into his view that he was creating another warding line. The circle was half-done when surprising pain flared across Carl's fingers. He couldn't stifle a noise of shock.

Ancell had produced a knife, and dragged the edge across the tips of Carl's fingers with the ease of long practice. He effortlessly manhandled the friar to the edge of the circle, holding his hand over the dark line and squeezing mercilessly. A few drops of blood spilled, hissing into steam as they hit the dark substance and were absorbed. Staring in shock, it took Carl several seconds to realize he had been released; he turned in time to see Hastings, who had never stopped drawing the circle, enclose the two ends and complete the ward.

The friar rushed forward furiously, and Hastings spoke a foreign word that sizzled in the air. Carl hit an invisible wall, and was thrown to the ground. Ancell and Schoen were flanking the mayor, watching him with respectively amused and neutral expressions.

"This warding line has been keyed to you with your blood," Hastings told him conversationally. "You won't be harmed, but you cannot escape. While you are within the ward, no living thing can enter to harm you, but likewise you cannot leave. Your friends are in similar situations." Despite himself, Carl glanced worriedly to his right. Lamar was staring at them with silent hatred, and Gabriel –

"Ah! I see someone is awake at last!" Hastings cried jovially.

The hunter was stirring slightly, and after a moment hazel eyes blinked open. His face was still alarmingly pallid – he had not regained any color with consciousness. After a moment, he managed to push himself into a sitting position, one hand firmly braced on the ground, but he gazed around himself as if unsure of what he was seeing. Carl's heart twisted at the barely-visible confusion in the hazel depths, before lids slipped closed. For a moment he thought the hunter might pass out, but when his eyes reopened, the confusion had been replaced with steely intelligence. Once again, Gabriel took in his surroundings, this time registering what was around him. His eyes paused briefly on Carl and Lamar, before focusing on the threat.

Hastings stopped in front of the hunter's cell, and Gabriel shoved himself to his feet, refusing to meet this man on anything but equal ground. "I'm truly sorry for what I had to do when you came calling," the Mayor apologized earnestly. "I slipped Louisa Pardoe's home blend into your drink, simply to be able to manage you more easily. You had rather a worse reaction than what I had expected." Critical eyes appraised the white face and cold sweat shining on Gabriel's brow. "Some sort of allergy, perhaps? But I think it's quite clear that we needn't get you anywhere near large amounts of St. John's Wort in the future."

"What do you want?" Gabriel cut him off harshly. His eyes flicked to Ancell, standing silently in the background, before returning to the Mayor.

"Well, that's why we're all here, isn't it?" Hastings was remarkably – unaccountably – cheerful. "Now, I know these aren't the most ideal circumstances," he began, with a tragically mournful look as he indicated their respective warding lines. "But I have a proposition to make to you all, as it were." The calm control had now overridden the camaraderie, and Hastings' voice turned thoughtful.

"I know that by now, you have discovered some of what is occurring in Boxborough." A tiny smile curved his lips. "I give you credit – you are much more insightful and determined than Warren Gray ever was. But more on that later," he said dismissively, pocketing the flask he had been holding and folding his hands in front of him. Hastings took two steps back, so that they were all in his sight, arrayed helplessly before him. Carl was not thrilled by the sensation; judging by the look on his face, Gabriel was similarly displeased.

"Now, I would like to make clear to you exactly what we have been doing, in the hopes that you will be able to cast off your prior assumptions, the prior beliefs which have been so wrongly fed to you by the Vatican, and join our noble cause." The incredible speaking ability Carl had noted before was coming into play once more; Hastings' voice thrilled to hear, fluid and charismatic. Carl was listening, almost despite himself, and he could tell Lamar was as well.

"For some time now," Hastings continued, "the leaders of this town have been aware of a growing threat. The evil which the rest of mankind has no idea even exists -" his words were an exact mirror of Jinette's, Gabriel noted, but the tone was spiked with hatred in a way that Jinette's resolved acceptance could never have matched. "- It is growing," Hastings continued. Gabriel was barely listening. "And we prepare to meet it." Those words, however, caught his attention.

Hastings' eyes glittered, lingering on Gabriel as if he knew he had engaged the hunter in the one-way conversation. "For some time, we have been preparing to protect ourselves, our town and lands and the people who – even within our number – remain unaware of what is truly going on. The fire you see behind me – the noble sacrifices that the flames consume were our strongest protection against the evil." Gabriel blinked in confusion. "We constructed a pentacle, beginning in October," Hastings continued blithely. "It was a pentacle of protection, a device used by ancient magicians to protect themselves from evil, from the force of the powers they were calling upon. We have long since believed that this pentacle is the basis for a similar protection which overlays the Vatican herself.

"This protection is necessary," Hastings changed subject abruptly. "While we leave, to hunt down and destroy the evil which plagues the lands, sometimes we must travel far across the country, west, south and north. Our home, our sanctuary, is unprotected in these times, and we have already suffered losses." He gave a heavy sigh at this. "You are aware of Anthony Austin's death. He was allowed to construct a protective pentacle around his home itself after an attack there by a witch. He was overzealous in his protection, though that can be easily forgiven. In that house and the lands bounded by the pentacle, there can be no violence. The air itself is easier to breathe, and there is a peace there that many wish to partake of. His foresight was remarkable – he was killed not long after, on a hunting expedition to destroy a coven of witches north of here. His body was given to our cause." Hastings swept a hand back to indicate the fire in an expansive gesture.

"This," the mayor continued grimly, "is simply an example of the evil we confront daily. Our cause is just, and yet the Vatican does not see the danger we face. We were forced to cut the cable lines a year ago – the orders we were receiving would have left us defenseless, vulnerable to even the weakest attack! We needed to strike out on our own, much as our ancestors struck out from British suppression!" Hasting's face was intent now, words coming fast and enthralling the listeners. "I ask you now," he breathed deeply. "Join us! We have need of your talent and knowledge – with your help, we could scour the evil from this country, make a land free of menace and devilish, nightmarish creatures. Join us!"

Carl was admittedly swayed by the impassioned plea. The people here did have a mission, and he had seen clearly their ability, dedication and imagination. But the fire burned merrily in the background, and the stench of burning meat was strong in his nostrils. To cast off the Vatican? Declare himself a rogue – deny their teachings? He glanced at the others. Gabriel's face was set and expressionless, giving no clue to his emotions. Lamar, however, looked to be seriously considering the offer.

Hastings himself was standing back, judging each one of them with a knowing smile. It was that which unnerved Carl the most – this man barely knew them, yet seemed to be predicting their reactions with uncanny accuracy.

"Of course you need time to think of this," he allowed them generously. "And to discuss amongst yourselves, of course. I will bring someone here that I think you should meet – someone who may be able to convince you, if I have not already done so." The certainty in that voice raised all of Carl's suspicions, banishing the comfortable glow of glory and freedom which Hastings' words had set to dancing in his head. He tore his eyes from the mayor, who had in his usual style commanded all their attention to the point of forgetfulness of their surroundings. "Please, think on our noble mission. Nothing would please me more than for you to take up our mantle, join our cause."

With a formal little bow, Hastings disappeared into the undergrowth, closely followed by Ancell. The sounds of their passage died slowly away, leaving the three men in silence for a moment.

The moment was broken as Gabriel wavered slightly on his feet, before allowing his knees to collapse under him, gently toppling him to the ground. Carl's concern, lost in the haze of thought and confusion roused by Hastings' speech and the forthcoming revelations, returned in full force. "That doesn't bode well," he observed with a pale imitation of his usual good humor.

"I'll be fine."

"They drugged you," Carl retorted more sharply than he had intended.

"St. John's Wort," Gabriel confirmed wearily. "I've come across it before – but not so recently that I recognized the signs. Damn."

"They've been drugging you since you started staying at the Pardoes'," Carl revealed what he had overheard just hours ago. "In all your food and drink. They began giving you more when they couldn't discern any effects. It's been in your body for days, now."

A light seemed to brighten the hunter's face – and he nodded in thoughtful understanding. "Yes – that would explain -" but then he shook his head, and refused to say more on the subject.

"What do you make of this offer?" Lamar asked suddenly, changing the subject awkwardly.

Though it had not been long, the time since Hastings had disappeared had been more than enough for Carl to put some very important clues together. Hastings wanted them on his side – all the evidence pointed to such. But instead of asking them outright, he had imprisoned them all and drugged Gabriel as well. Ancell stoutly supported Hastings, and appeared to do nothing without his consent; yet the blacksmith had started a fight with Lamar, and endangered him by pushing the Jerusalemite into the millpond. Lamar's current illness, and the fact that he was being further endangered by being confined outside in the cold without being properly dressed, only heightened Carl's dislike and suspicion. The people under Hastings' order accomplished their goals through trickery and stealth, and while that in and of itself was not precisely dishonorable, they had lied to members of the Order, people who could be expected to understand. There was no need for such deceit. While Anthony Austin's death might be easily explainable, that of Warren Gray – whom even Hastings held in contempt – was not. Nor was the fact that they were delving into dark magicks so easily dismissed. This led the friar to a single conclusion.

"He's possessed," Carl said flatly.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "He's not possessed, Carl."

"How can you be sure?" Lamar demanded, a frantic light in his eyes.

"I'm sure."

There was a short pause, interrupted by a snort of disbelief. "I still say he's possessed."

"_Carl!_" But a reluctant laugh broke away from the hunter's control, a soft and tired sound but heartening nonetheless.

The weak noise trickled away into a silence more comfortable for its existence. "Neither of you is seriously considering it, then?"

"And you are?" Carl looked incredulously past Gabriel to Lamar. "Look at the bodies burning in that fire, and tell me that Hastings has given us the full truth."

"The pentacle -"

"Does not require the giving of a life to be drawn and sustained," Gabriel interrupted wearily. "I have seen the magicians of Persia at work. Only when they called upon the forces of evil was a blood sacrifice required. Even then, one was considered sufficient."

"They fight fire with fire!" Lamar protested feebly.

Gabriel drew himself up, sitting taller as he turned to the Jerusalemite huddled on the ground in the cold. "Give me no platitudes," he commanded coldly. "This is not the same as some tired banality. No one can hope to control evil this potent without being consumed by it. These people may think that they are using the weapons of the enemy against their foe, when in truth they are the ones being used." Lamar flinched over the hunter's evident disappointment. Gabriel's outburst, however, seemed to drain the strength from him. He recalled Jinette's earlier words now, from almost another time. _Lamar was knowledgeable and skilled in so many different areas because the man was searching for something. An internal struggle distracted him from dedicating himself to any one area._

Gabriel sighed quietly, seeing into the other's mind. "You may have lost your faith in Allah, Lamar," he said quietly. "But Allah has not lost faith in you. The path that Hastings opens to you – it would murder your soul."

The Jerusalemite went pale at Gabriel's words, something tight and desperate burning in his eyes. Carl was quiet.

"How do you know this?" Lamar barely breathed, staring in wondrous awe, and a little fear, at the hunter.

"Look around you," Gabriel gestured gently. "Remember what has been done in this town – the murder of innocents, a gathering force of evil that threatens to swallow us whole. Can there be anything good in this?"

Though Gabriel had evaded the question, the answer turned Lamar from his fear. Carl could see understanding dawning in Lamar's eyes, as he drew himself away from the allure of Hastings' offer, hearing the mayor's words for the first time in a new light. As he gazed around the clearing, Lamar's eyes grew sad, and Carl rejoiced inwardly when the sorrow was replaced with resolve. He had hovered over an edge, deceptively deep, yet pulled himself back from the abyss. "I -"

Gabriel cut Lamar off suddenly, the words ripped from his throat. "Something is coming!"

United in their concern, Lamar and Carl glanced at each other before turning their worried gazes to Gabriel. He was whiter than ever, more pallid than the churned-up snow around them, his breathing fast and shallow. The sounds of several people walking through the woods came to them, from the direction Hastings and Ancell had disappeared in. Gabriel gave a soft, pained moan.

"Van Helsing?"

"Gabriel? What is it?" Carl hissed. The hunter didn't answer, and had started to shake imperceptibly.

The two redirected their attention to the far side of the clearing, at which point Ancell barged through the last scrub separating clearing from forest. Behind him came Schoen's lanky form, followed by two men. Hastings came forward, and behind him was another man with graying hair. His eyes, too, were a piercing green. If one looked carefully, there was a bit of a resemblance between Hastings and the older man. Not in features so much as the line of the nose, the set of the jaw, and the sly expression of catlike satisfaction.

"Brothers from Rome," Derek Hastings began formally. "I would like to introduce to you our ranking magician, the head of our new Order, and my father. Joseph Hastings."

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I arrived back home today, and as promised, here is the next chapter! To all those cussing me out for the cliffhanger(s), I refuse to apologize; I've remembered how much I like them! I do not, however, want to lose any readers to death by frustration, so I'll do my best to have the next update within the week!


	21. Chapter 21

"But – you're dead!" Carl burst out.

The new man smiled thinly, his mouth a slash across an aged face. He was sixty at a glance; and he possessed his son's cool control. "You'll find," he began in a deep, commanding voice, "That Derek inherited both his patience and his good humor from his mother. I want your answers. Now."

Joseph Hastings' eyes were green and when his gaze rested on you for too long, you could feel the sickly power roll off him in waves. Carl discovered this as the man stared him down. A defiant retort dissolved in his throat; all that came out was a sullen-sounding, "No."

The man nodded. "Very well then. What of your companions? Hmm?"

Lamar met the man's gaze evenly for a moment. "No," he refused strongly, before he could no longer hold that burning stare.

"And you?" Impatience burned in his tone, as he turned lastly to the hunter. There was a muffled sound from Gabriel – his face was buried in his knees as he strove to regain control over his body. "What!" Hastings demanded. "What do you say?"

The shaking stopped then, the hunter's body stilling. The world seemed to hold its breath. Clear and cold, one word rang through the space between them. "No," Gabriel hissed. Hazel eyes clashed with green, and Carl felt himself staring, though he could do nothing about it. The hunter, with each passing moment, was somehow _different_. It was as if a bright light blazed inside of him, burning too fiercely to be seen by mortal eyes.

He was not the only one to notice this change; Lamar was staring with memory clouding his eyes. Derek Hastings took a step forward, peering incredulously at Gabriel. And his father, the warlock, was drinking in the sight greedily.

"Where did you come by this power?" he asked, eager avarice in his bearing as he stepped even closer. Gabriel rose smoothly to his feet, all signs of his previous illness forgotten.

The hunter had stopped fighting. With the close proximity of such evil his true nature would not be withheld; amplified by the drugs, his senses screamed at him to act, to destroy. He stepped close, in a flash of movement. The warlock didn't flinch, although Derek Hastings and Ancell jerked backward. He was flush with where the ward should be, toeing the black line and staring down at Joseph Hastings.

The warlock's eyes widened. "Magnificent," he breathed, drinking in the ever-growing radiance spilling from Gabriel. Carl was squinting to make out the hunter's features in the resplendent glow. A true smile, chilling and malicious, curled Hastings' lips. "Incredible," he continued loudly. "Such power – how did you come by it? I knew there must be more to you than what met the eye. But for all your strength, your power is eclipsed by my own," he gloated darkly.

"Guess again." Gabriel bared his teeth in a smile more akin to a snarl. He tore through the line as if it didn't exist, released into the clearing and vicious with battle-fury. Ancell jumped between the hunter and his prey – and Gabriel turned his attention from Joseph Hastings. For now.

It was a sorry sight to watch; the blacksmith was overmatched from the beginning. Gabriel's movements were swift and powerful, imbued with a beauteous grace that was thrilling to behold. Beside him, Ancell's lumbering motions were sadly pathetic.

The blacksmith's first heavy punch was avoided with skilful ease. Faster than thought, Gabriel grabbed his outstretched fist and in one smooth motion flipped the large man over onto his back. With that, it was over. A spinning Tojo blade descended relentlessly, ready to cleave flesh and bone.

A shot split the air, and Carl cried out in shock and pain. In disbelieving surprise, the friar clutched at his sleeve. The bullet had penetrated the warding line, grazing a deep, blistering line across his shoulder. The skin had split, and was stinging angrily with blood trickling from the cut.

Gabriel's hand had stopped dead.

"Kill him, and I will not hesitate to shoot," the warlock promised, deep voice echoing through the air.

The spinning Tojo blade disappeared, and Gabriel stepped smoothly away from Ancell, never losing the impression of contained, poetic violence. His hands rose in the air. The hungry flames of the fire crackled in the background, the only noise in the clearing. "Robert," the warlock snapped. Ancell hastily scrambled backwards out of the snow, a thin line of red scoring across his throat. "Get the chains," Joseph Hastings ordered. His sights remain fixed on Carl, and his attention never left the hunter. "You are a warrior," Hastings told them. "Your own life means little to you. The lives of others, however -" He clicked his tongue disgustedly. "These bullets are dipped in silver. They will penetrate the warding line with ease. If you move, even the slightest, I will send one through his heart. I do not bluff. Useful as he may be to us, he's of no use to me if I am dead."

Ancell lumbered back, Derek Hastings halting him with an outstretched arm. "Father?"

"For that insult, they both stay," the warlock snapped. "They will be prepared, with the other. Robert. Now. Go," he ordered Van Helsing. The hunter carefully retreated as Ancell indicated – he was moved back to a tree standing a short ways inside the clearing. The thick, shimmering links were securely wrapped around the solid trunk. Ancell stripped him of his thick coat before locking the manacles around each wrist.

Joseph Hastings was clearly more satisfied with this arrangement. "Steel chains, coated with silver. Man or monster, they will hold you."

_Not for long_, Gabriel thought. He kept his gaze locked on the warlock, a promise of justice, as Ancell carefully frisked him for weapons. All of his knives but one were found, as were his pistols and blowgun. With each additional weapon, Derek Hastings' eyes widened. Gabriel believed in being well-prepared, for anything.

Ancell rifled briefly through the pockets of his coat, discovering the secreted Tojo blade and fingering it experimentally. Gabriel had lost the other – he did not know when, only that it had probably happened between when he had been drugged at Hastings', and when he had woken inside the ward. He was meticulously attentive in regards to each and every one of his weapons. The blacksmith, satisfied with what he had discovered, dumped the remaining weapons into the coat pockets, bundling up the garment and dropping it on the far side of the clearing, well out of reach.

Joseph Hastings stepped forward again, stalking angrily toward the hunter. "Impressive," he bit out. The jealousy was painted plainly across his countenance. "You will tell me where you acquired your power." His tone brooked no opposition, and he cocked the gun as he glanced purposefully toward the imprisoned men.

"I did not acquire it."

Such an answer could be expected to light a madman's short fuse, spiraling them all towards a deadly explosion. But the warlock merely narrowed his eyes searchingly. "You do not lie," he murmured at last. "But you do not answer me."

Gabriel grimly inclined his head. "Just so."

"I have no patience for a game of questions," the warlock snapped. The strands of darkness cocooning his figure grew thicker, stronger in the hunter's sight. He raised the weapon, pointing unerringly at Carl. "He can only dodge for so long. Tell me from whence this power comes!"

"From God."

Derek Hastings snorted at the serene answer. "How many times do you receive that answer, father?" His much-praised patience had obviously reached its natural end. "All fight for their god, all claim that their power derives from him. They are driven by fanatical faith, ready to cheaply expend their lives and those of their fellows for a belief that, in the end, is false."

"Bold words," Gabriel observed coldly. "Especially from you and your ilk."

"You answer truthfully, without answering at all," Joseph Hastings said once more, as if he had not heard his son. "Yet if this is true – it is of no use to me." He whirled now, one outstretched arm pointed at the quaking friar. Carl was murmuring prayers under his breath, ready to dodge for his life while knowing the small space he had to maneuver guaranteed his death. "Tell me now, on his life, do you speak truthfully?" the warlock yelled the question, tension racketing higher in all the men in the clearing. Except one.

"Yes." The calm, simple answer melted the danger away, for now.

"In that case," Joseph Hastings said, very softly, "I have no need for _you_, then, do I?" His attention was fixed solely on the hunter in a sort of maniacal glee as he brought the gun to bear. "Even your power cannot protect you from _this_."

"Father!" snapped the younger Hastings, taking two paces forward. "Would you destroy everything on his account?"

The elder hesitated.

"Remember, the first blood -"

"I know, boy," barked Joseph Hastings irritably. He champed his teeth for a moment. "If you're so intent upon his continued survival, I suggest you prepare him to view the coming events. I will not have them obliterating our chances for success now, when we are so close!" He stomped off to stand in front of the fire, the situation abruptly diffused.

The hunter stared warily at Derek Hastings, as the smartly-clad Mayor approached him. "_Prepare_?" he tested the word lowly, as the other stepped into hearing range. There was a wealth of warning and defiance in his posture.

With a revival of his usual charisma, Hastings only smiled. "Since you're not bounded by the warding line, we must enter you into the final preparations for the creation of our protective pentacle. You will be a participant, though a motionless and silent one. Your friend's life will depend on it." The forthright flippancy was somehow more repellant than his father's unstable temper, and Gabriel didn't even try to hide the disgust he was feeling. "You needn't worry, however," Hastings continued, ignoring his expression. "All that's required for you is that you change clothes. You don't even need to be properly cleansed, as we will be – you are not going to do anything other than stand here." The last words held a dark promise of more than equal retaliation for any action he might take.

Gabriel didn't even bother to respond, never taking his attention from the three men circling the clearing like wary wolves. The number was soon increased to four, as Schoen returned to assist the preparations. With a gun tracking Carl's every nervous twitch, the hunter was forced to strip, wash briefly in the snow, and dress himself in garments provided by the warlock. The clothes were of undyed, handwoven cotton – white and thin. Fully clad, he earned another penetrating stare from Joseph Hastings, and the continued contemplative attention of Schoen.

With the hunter chained once more and securely bound, the three men left the clearing, presumably to prepare themselves.

"Am I the only one here who thinks they don't quite know what they're doing?" Carl asked snappishly the moment all sounds of their passage had disintegrated into the brush.

"No," Lamar muttered. He was uneasy. "Do you remember what the mayor said, about the first blood?"

Gabriel frowned.

"In most summonings, a creature will be killed so that in the moment of death, there is a connection between the world of the living and the afterlife; a connection the demon uses to slip through to our world," Carl rattled off, thinking hard.

"But Derek Hastings specifically said that the pentacle would be one of protection," Gabriel objected tiredly.

Carl shrugged. "When I overheard Schoen this morning, he seemed positive it would be a pentacle of containment."

The hunter shook his head slowly. "Who was Schoen speaking to?" he asked at last. The weariness in his voice was almost palpable, and Carl stared for a moment before answering.

"Ancell, and Pardoe."

Gabriel closed his eyes, leaning against the tree at his back. Now that the evil miasma surrounding Joseph Hastings had moved a good distance away, it was not so hard to contain his true nature. With the emergence of mortality, however, came a resurgence in illness; the drugs had been merely forgotten, and their effects had not dissipated. All his senses were hyper-aware, and he could feel the evil around them in a steady pulse reminiscent of a heartbeat. It was growing stronger.

How long had he been lingering here, brought to a half-aware state by the drugs swirling in his bloodstream? As the sense of imminent evil increased, so did the inner light within him. With it came his strength. His mortal incarnation crumbled away before the power hidden inside. It was too strong, his nature. Too much for the mortals around him to bear unscathed.

So he strained to hold it back, as cold lucidity returned. They were very close now. He blinked, and sat up straighter, and found Carl and Lamar in a hushed conversation that had been going on for quite some time.

"They're coming back," he interrupted them. The change was in his voice, in his eyes, shining out through his skin. He could no longer hold it back, nor did he want to. Yet some inner voice of caution kept the restraint solid.

Soon the noises of rustling branches reached the ears of his companions; all too soon, the four men reemerged into the weak sunlight illuminating the clearing. Each man's hair was wet, and their clothes were thin and simple; hand-woven linen, both pants and shirts dyed black.

They were eerily silent, arraying themselves around the fire, which was still burning hotly. Black smoke blew through the clearing, bringing the smell of burnt meat to each of the seven men nearby. Carl gagged, and Lamar paled, swallowing hard. The hunter's attention was fixed, with animal intensity, on Joseph Hastings. The man began chanting, lowly, and his companions remained silent. Gabriel recognized the language Hastings was using, despite his clumsy pronunciation and near-mangling of the words.

After several long minutes of foreign words that dripped strangely into the ears, heralding queasiness and strange, shooting pains, the warlock descended into silence. It was hardly better.

As one, the four men around him turned. They looked unnaturally similar in that moment, their faces blanked of expression and outward thought. Their eyes were, to a man, flat and dead, consumed by their avid concentration. They were all focused in on one individual, and Gabriel's anger flared.

They moved now, perfectly synchronized in a way only practice could provide, and circled the warding cell of their chosen victim. With a knife of pure silver, flashing in the late-morning sun, the warlock broke the warding line. Ancell advanced on the smaller man, grasping him and hauling him toward the others. They closed in around him, and Gabriel gritted his teeth together in consternation as Lamar was completely hidden from view.

Whatever they did to him did not take long, and once he was released, he had ceased struggling. Arms and legs dangled limply; his eyes were half-closed and glazed with a drugged sheen.

Ancell dragged him from the now-useless warding cell, as Schoen and the younger Hastings moved off, behind the massive fire and out of sight. They returned in less than a moment, dragging a large wooden contraption behind them.

It looked like a table, whose legs had been attached to sled-runners. It was low, only reaching about knee height, and Gabriel had to stare at it for only a few seconds before he realized that the blackened coloring of the wood was not natural. Only one substance could leave a stain so irrevocable.

It was rudely constructed and clearly not the work of the local carpenter, yet for all its rough look, sigils and signs had been carved into the flat surface with utmost care. Gabriel knew of them all, though there were some he did not recognize. Ancient words of power, of seeking and binding, calling and commanding. Words that carved a path between the worlds, one specific to the maker's needs, and held it open. The table must be made of rowan – a more powerful wood for these workings could not be found, and for anything stronger, they would have been forced to use marble. But rowan was not black, stained in patterns of dripping and flowing fluids. The hunter bared his teeth when he saw it.

Lamar was heaved carelessly onto the rough surface, shackled down almost as an afterthought.

Gabriel tensed.

Ancell, muscles bulging, pushed the contraption into the center of the circle, not far from the fire.

It was then that Carl made a move. The sunlight, flashing off metal, caught the hunter's eye and he whipped toward the glint. Carl threw the missing Tojo blade, hard, toward the hunter. Six pairs of eyes followed its motion as it left his hand, slicing the air. It impacted with the warding wall, and dropped uselessly to the ground.

Carl's despondent expression disappeared under Hastings' furious parting glare, to be replaced with stony impassiveness. The four men dressed in black turned their attention from the friar.

The chanting resumed, the strange words filling the clearing with the memory of an evil that they fully intended to call to life. One by one, each of the men dropped out of the chant until only the warlock was left speaking. It was then that the knife, shining silver in the sun, arced relentlessly down toward the helpless man.

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Here you go! My vacation has extended, and I am quite literally stealing my internet access. Reviews will be heavy incentive for me to type, rather than laze about . . . do let me know what you think! Thanks once again to all my faithful reviewers!


	22. Chapter 22

**Warning & A/N:** This is the chapter you've all been waiting for. Just to be sure, I've upped the rating to R, or M for Mature Audiences Only. There is quite a bit of action and violence, some nasty description – but it's not as bad as previous chapters. Please just be aware. I was going to split it up with another cliffhanger, but you got lucky – it didn't want to be split. So it is also one-third as long as usual. Enjoy. And no, I'm not done just yet.

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The knife's unstoppable descent was halted sharply, mere inches from the Jerusalemite's skin. Lamar never noticed.

Gabriel's eyes narrowed.

"Father," gasped Derek Hastings, his voice lost to the strain of holding the other man back. "What are you doing? It is not time; those are not the proper words for -"

The older man laughed harshly, a rough, grating sound. "Did you truly think that we would be able to triumph by fighting as we have always done?" He shoved his son away, distracted at a crucial moment.

Carl was staring in mute shock. The friar and the hunter had been completely forgotten by the four men ringed around the table with its sad burden and gruesome history.

"You and your kind have persisted in thinking the old ways could work. I have been fighting for longer than you have been alive, boy," the warlock snapped bitterly. He stepped back from the table, turning to fully face the others. "I have lost friends, good friends, and family to the evils which stalk our world. Never has anything we have done allowed us the protection they know in Rome. Never have we been safe, had a sanctuary in our relentless toil." His fury was growing, and the man was purple with apoplectic jealousy. "Never have we had the power to defeat the evil that roams this land, once and for all time. I will save us, I will!"

"You will destroy us!" his son retorted hotly. A hand was flung out in passionate plea, begging forgiveness. "I have bowed to your will my entire life, father. But how can I do other than stand against you now? There is no way we can control the beast you intend to call up, not without -"

"Not without me," the warlock replied smugly. "The summoning has already begun. The words have begun it. If you kill me, you ensure death for the village – a death that will not be contained by your paltry pentacle. It will spread, through America, and over the entire world. Even those in Rome will not be safe," he finished with a good measure of gloating satisfaction. His face was twisted into a sneer; the expression was repellent in its malicious glee.

Derek Hastings was pasty white and shaking, but never once did he lose his composure as he backed away from his father. "Robert," he snapped. Ancell moved forward, an immovable obstacle, to stand protectively at his shoulder.

At the same moment, Jason Schoen swept forward. He sideswiped the blacksmith, and the student stumbled backwards, grunting. A thin line of blood scored the side of his face.

Derek Hastings was left alone, facing his father.

All hell broke loose.

Before their very eyes, student and teacher became locked in a fierce battle, a violent dance with each endeavoring to kill the other, without spilling blood onto the snow that was being churned up under their feet.

Derek and Joseph Hastings were frozen, on either side of the breathing sacrifice chained to the table between them. Carl could not see the battle they were fighting, but Gabriel could. The air between them was thick with twirling tentacles of evil, smoky strands grappling and sparking invisibly.

It was the battle between Ancell and Schoen, however, which was of most import. Back and forth across the clearing, it appeared that neither could gain an advantage. Blows were traded and evaded, strikes blocked and returned, only to be blocked once more. It was clear that student and teacher knew one another too well, could predict and anticipate with equal success.

They were eerily equal, the dance continuous as they darted around small obstacles that would have the ability to turn the fight in favor of one or another. Circling the clearing, their familiarity with one another was clear in every motion.

Ancell used his power to his advantage, but Schoen turned his smaller target size, speed and reach to his advantage. The blacksmith's moves were precise, sneaky, and powerful. He landed one blow, splitting Schoen's lip as the other darted back, misjudging the distance. At that moment, Ancell smiled slightly. It seemed he had scored a victory against his teacher, one that was all too rare in his experience. The blacksmith seemed buoyed with new confidence.

There was a short, significant pause as Schoen stopped, wiping his lip carefully on his sleeve. When he looked up at his former student, however, there was a cold deadness in his eyes that visibly drained the blacksmith's confidence. It was a sly move, a simple look, which turned the blacksmith's momentary victory into his ultimate defeat.

The fight was rejoined, but now Schoen was showing the depth and breadth of training that he had obviously never revealed before. The battle between father and son broke off as the men seemingly reached an impasse. In silent agreement, their attention turned to the fight that was moving slowly, inexorably, but increasingly in favor of Jason Schoen.

Schoen was calling on unique moves, and endurance that he had ruthlessly built up in himself, and his student was baffled and confused, continually losing ground. Carl felt a flash of pity, despite his dislike of the man, as a panicked, shocked expression manifested in the blacksmith's eyes. Nowhere else was his frantic emotion evident; the only sign that it affected his ability was in his renewed awareness and determination.

The first he knew of defeat was when, with a shock of horror, Ancell realized that he had let knowledge of his surroundings slip from his all-consuming focus. He was being backed toward the massive pyre in the center of the clearing; he could feel the warmth of the flames searing his skin, sweat was pouring from him in rivulets. He stepped sideways, attempting to turn the fight in another direction.

It was in that one move that his defeat was sealed. The balance tipped slightly for the first time, but it was enough.

As the blacksmith shifted position, his feet fumbled for only a moment over a small dip in the ground. Schoen shot forward, and the two were suddenly fighting in much closer quarters. The blacksmith grappled with his teacher, but the taller man knocked him off balance. Suddenly, they were wrestling in the snow, rolling back and forth, away from the searing coals that sizzled and spat tiny sparks on the two combatants.

Ancell ended up on top, using his greater weight to attempt to crush Schoen into the snow, but the lanky man hooked a leg around and up, flipping his student with ease. Slamming his elbow back, Schoen's first such blow crushed Ancell's nose in a move Gabriel immediately recognized. The second blow ground lips against teeth, knocking the tiny bones from their moorings. Taking advantage of his student's momentary disorientation, Schoen continued to rain blows down on the blacksmith, hitting vulnerable areas in rapid succession. A ragged scream burst from Ancell's lips as Schoen dislocated his knee with a single ruthless kick.

Panting harshly, Ancell's attention was on getting to his feet when Schoen made the final move. Sweeping out and around, a blow to the solar plexus doubled the larger man over in pain. When he finally rose, he moved directly into Schoen's grip. Long-fingered hands gripped his skull firmly.

Carl looked away, but forgot to cover his ears. The meaty _crack_ of Ancell's neck snapping did not travel far through the clearing, but Carl was close enough to hear. He winced at the thick, dull sound, but there was no noise of a body falling. He couldn't help himself, and glanced back. Schoen gently lowered his student to the ground in a motion that played at tenderness, but was spoiled by the flat, careless expression in the killer's eyes. Wide eyes stared sightlessly, dead blood dribbling down slack features to stain the snow. The friar swallowed, and turned his face determinedly away.

The next sight that met his eyes was that of Schoen, plunging his hands into the snow to wash them, and emotionlessly accepting a scrap of linen cloth from Joseph Hastings. The warlock turned then to his son. "Will you continue to defy me, son?"

Derek's face was gray with fear and indecision. "What are you doing?" he whispered unevenly.

"Will you defy me?" Joseph thundered. His gaze bore down unremittingly on his only offspring, demanding obedience. No one could stand before that for long, though to his credit Derek Hastings did try. In the end, he crumbled before his father's overpowering will, and nodded, eyes lowered.

"Take the position of the dedicator," Joseph Hastings gruffly ordered.

The three men then moved, slowly, for Derek Hastings' steps were small, his attention locked on the forgotten body of his friend. They took up different positions around the table. Lamar had not so much as twitched, and gave no sign that he was even cognizant of his surroundings.

It appeared that the warlock did not trust Derek, for the mayor of Boxborough took a position at Lamar's head, facing the flames of the pyre, with his hands locked loosely behind his back. Joseph Hastings himself stood to Lamar's right, and Schoen faced him across Lamar's prone body.

Gabriel's attention was drawn from Ancell's corpse as the chanting resumed. Hastings had obviously decided to begin again. The words that he heard slowly unraveled in his mind, did not hiss and slither from his hearing as they did from that of the other listeners. Powerful words, strangely spoken, twisted the elements to their will, tracing out a containment for whatever being they were still trying to call up. He recognized them, despite the way Hastings garbled each syllable. For all his pride and menace, for all the power that he proclaimed control of, the warlock's knowledge was full of dangerous, gaping holes. He was making mistakes, and with growing dread Gabriel realized that Hastings was completely unaware of his failings. He continued, in ignorance of his own inadequacy for the task he had set himself.

When the tone of the words shifted, moving from containment to calling, Gabriel knew it, with a thrill of adrenaline-pulsed dismay. Schoen's rolling baritone drifted to silence, and he began to prepare the knife whose earlier journey had been so abruptly cut short. As the master trainer's voice was silenced, that of Derek Hastings rose to take its place. Although he was clearly not trusted, it was just as clear to see that he was needed in this ceremony.

The two men spoke slowly now, alternating phrases, words and syllables in increasing complexity. Precision was the key which would unlock the demon's prison. Simply by listening, the hunter could tell that Derek was much more knowledgeable than his father, or had a gift for languages. His command of the Old Persian they spoke was much cleaner, his grasp of intonation and meter much firmer, than that of the domineering warlock at his side.

Gabriel focused on the words, waiting for the name of the beast they were attempting to command. Only with the true name would the creature they summoned be fully bound to the warlock's will, instead of its own. It was only in this way that could he ignore the cresting wave of malice sweeping inexorably through the clearing. He did not think he could bear it, chained and helpless as he was, and doomed to remain that way for fear of his friend and the innocent bound as sacrifice. His control was thread-thin, and already his concern was washing away in the tide of light rising within. He must wait – the time was not yet right. It could destroy everything if-

The voices that had become lost in his inner battle for control, blurring to meaningless mumbles, rose in a triumphant crescendo. It was only now that Gabriel blinked, realizing that at some point, Derek Hastings had dropped out of the chant and the warlock was speaking alone.

He shouted the final enunciation with a flourish, taking the knife that Schoen held out to him. Without further ado, he set the razor edge to skin, and began making sharp, quick cuts over Lamar's body. The Jerusalemite's shirt had been lost during the chant, disposed of by Schoen in preparation for the live butchery taking place before them.

Hastings began on the inside of Lamar's right thumb, slicing the skin in a graceful curve across the palm, up the wrist and into the inside of the elbow. As he slit Lamar's wrist, the blood began to flow, soaking the table in a crimson wave and pooling repugnantly over the wood. The knife-stroke never ceased, tracing in an unbroken line up the bicep and across the collarbone. The motion of the blade was continuous, even as it was transferred from the warlock to Schoen, who carved an identical line down Lamar's left arm ending at his thumb. Only then was the blade lifted from his flesh.

Hastings began once more, carving a line to bisect Lamar's ribcage, straight down his body from collarbone to groin. The knife moved then to the Jerusalemite's legs, slicing a single continuous gash along the top of each leg. These last wounds were more symbolic than practical. The damage had already been done. Lamar's lifeblood was soaking out of him, ruby-red droplets merging into a red tide that swept over the wood which had weathered many such waves. Once he had made the ritual cuts, Joseph Hastings halted the ceremony, and waited; the sacrifice had been dedicated in all but actuality.

As he waited, Gabriel's attention was fixed on the blood, vibrant with life. After all, Lamar's heart was still beating. Carl's face was a mirror, reflecting each of his thwarted emotions, among the foremost of which were fury, fear and helplessness.

As the first drops trickled down each of the table legs, drawn by gravity to the ground of the desecrated clearing, the hunter braced himself, gathering his remaining strength.

The first sign that something untoward was happening came in the dampening of the flames. The massive pyre had burned hotly all through the day, gobbling up the bodies dedicated to its voracious appetite. It had shown no signs of dying down as it consumed flesh, bone and wood. The red and orange tongues of fire grew smaller now, and did not leap as high. Gradually, they shrank and disappeared until even latent heat was sucked from the air. Coals grew cold, giving up the ghost in tiny wisps of smoke.

Even heat from the sun was leeched away. The light grew dim as passing clouds gathered and spun themselves into nebulous masses covering the sky. The clearing grew shadowed, and darkness laughed at its victory over the day.

The silence that filled the clearing was overcome by a gradually rising noise; the sound of whispers, growing ever louder, filled the space between the men. Each voice whispered ugly, terrible secrets that were never meant to be repeated. The earth shrank from the force of those voices, trembling under their feet.

Then, slowly, it appeared.

Gabriel did not know which one it was, precisely. But of what it was he had no doubt.

In heaven's war, sides had been chosen by all, from archangels to the smallest seraphim. Those that sided with Lucifer were cast out and fell, forever distorted by the descent into something different, opposite of what they had been intended. But they did not grow; they changed, only.

What these foolish, foolhardy men had called upon had once been one of those seraphim, in the time before the world and before creation itself. One of the Lord's sweet children, who had followed the Light-bringer into everlasting damnation. Now, it was twisted beyond recognition and Gabriel could no longer tell who it had been.

It knew him, though, and faced him immediately upon entrance into the mortal realm. A sneer covered the face that was not precisely a face. It was not named, and so not bound – though it appeared that Gabriel himself was the only one aware of this. Carl might have known, but he was filled with horror and shock, struggling to retain his sanity.

Unbound as it was, it had no need to cater to the limited senses of mortals, and thus its painful _otherness _cracked the minds of unprotected humans. Gabriel could tell that it was using its time to pull the completeness of itself from beyond, into the clearing and the reality of Earth. Once it did, it would be utterly, completely and forever beyond Joseph Hastings' illusions of control.

As the thing began to manifest, the wave of evil flowing through the space around each man broke over their heads. The others could only sense the chill on their skin as it passed. Gabriel was caught, drowning in swirls and eddies as the force of it crashed against his nature and was repulsed. Ancient instinct reared up, and would not be denied. With the last of his strength, remembering Carl, he forced it back. Mercy, after all, had many definitions. The friar did not deserve the unyielding justice that would be meted out; the drugs clouding his mind kept Gabriel confused enough that he could not tell if he would remember or recognize friend from foe. His trust in himself wavered, and an unfamiliar fear for the power resting in his bones overtook all rational thought.

The idea of a laugh, sinister with intent, filled the clearing. It came from the thing still patiently waiting to be unleashed. It did not know why he did not destroy it even as it was caught before him. It only knew that he sought to prevent something, that he was unable to do so. And at the failure of angels, devils danced.

Gabriel snarled, tugging once more at his chains. Whether from the forces pulling at the world around them, or the undeniable change in the hunter, mere metal could no longer withstand him and the shackles fell from his wrists.

It was too late.

At the same moment the metal released the hunter, the creature yanked the lagging remainder of its essence into the mortal realm. With incredible speed, it turned on its summoner. Joseph Hastings had time enough to realize his fate, and begin panicked, jumbled words of command, before he was wiped from existence. The creature, distressing to look at and stretching beyond the dimensions of comprehension, snatched the warlock with something like teeth, which were nevertheless pointed and sharp, and gulped him down whole. Beneath the weight of such evil, Gabriel knew that the man's sanity snapped and his life ended at the same moment. His soul was lost – God only knew what ultimately became of Joseph Hastings.

Truly free now, the creature made its first and last mistake. It turned its complete attention, the full force of its corrupted soul, on the being that was now, unbelievably, trapped in a mortal incarnation and at its mercy. It would rend flesh, taste the blood that was tinged with something more than mortality, and destroy one of the favored. It would be the victor, despite its fall; for it would obliterate one of the Unspoken One's servants, the Left Hand himself.

The power rose up in the hunter, crushingly intense, and swept aside all rational thought. Fuelled by the drugs still within his system, unchecked by any restraint, radiance blazed from Gabriel in the only possible physical manifestation of the power within. Derek Hastings was reduced to a dead faint at the sight. Schoen turned his face away, and Carl squinted, shocked at the raw power being displayed.

The warding line containing the friar was rendered useless. Guided by an instinct he would later call almost surely suicidal, Carl stumbled toward his friend. He searched wildly for the – whatever the warlock had conjured up. The thing had vaporized, it seemed, blasted into nothing without time for a scream. With an emotion he would later recognize as hysterical humor, Carl saw a small, charred smudge of black where it had been . . . standing? Floating?

Shaking his head, he continued onward, for his friend was burning with a light that should be too hot to stand, a light that merely breathed across his skin, ghosting gently over his flesh. When he reached the source, Carl could not see, and grabbed Gabriel's arm.

It was like swallowing a bolt of lightning. Gasping at the strange sensation, Carl turned to survey the clearing, and saw what Gabriel saw. Strange images of white and black, tinted with emotions so far beyond his experience that he didn't know what he was feeling, flashed through his bones and settled behind his eyes. Derek Hastings, where he lay in a cold stupor in the snow, was cocooned in gray tendrils. Schoen was limned in crackling wisps of black and red.

It was Lamar, however, who caught his attention. Insubstantial strings of the palest silver were all that tied him to this world. He was fast fading, and Carl would stop it if he could. He tugged at the unresisting hunter, who seemed overcome by something that Carl could not understand. All the friar knew was that he must get to Lamar.

Step by step, they approached the table and the heavily drugged, nearly lifeless Jerusalemite. When they finally reached him, he was much more dead than alive, his heart pounding a sluggish, unsteady rhythm his chest. Carl reached out to him, not sure what he could do, if anything.

A familiar warmth descended over him, pulled in and through his body as his fingers made contact with flesh. For a moment, he did not recognize the feeling. Then he saw the cuts sealing, leaving faint white lines in their wake as they healed. The blood slowly disappeared, and the pallor left the Jerusalemite's skin until he was glowing healthily. His breathing, tight and labored, eased as the disease was cleansed from his body. The last bruises from his fight with Ancell darkened, then faded as they were fully healed. He was left sleeping, all signs of his misfortunes over the last few days erased in only a few seconds.

But the light faded now, and Carl stumbled as the warmth that had filled him disappeared abruptly, leaving a faint tingling in his veins. Something flashed by his face in a rush of color and air; a faint grunt sounded next to him as his grip on the hunter was ripped loose.

Schoen tackled Gabriel, driving both men to the ground as he sought to overcome the hunter. He jerked away on contact, however, a howl of pain on his lips. Large blisters were already raising on his skin, anywhere he had made contact with the hunter's bare flesh.

Gabriel rose effortlessly to his feet, and glanced at Carl. The friar backed out of the way, reading the look in his friend's eyes, and breathed easier. There was a clear lucidity in the hunter's hazel eyes that had been missing since their arrival in Boxborough. Carl knew without needing to be told that the drugs had been burned away, their effects eradicated at long last.

Schoen rushed forward once more, closing quarters with the hunter. This time, he was unprepared for the fight. For all his covert examination and preparation, his measurement of his opponent, Gabriel's style defied definition. His method of fighting was every method, blended together in a mix so familiar and strange, it confounded explanation – much like the hunter himself.

This battle was a dance between white and black; a reversal of the fight in St. Peter's Basilica mere months ago. This time, the forces of goodness were garbed in white, and those of evil were cloaked in treacherous shadow. Even though the power had faded, there was now no hiding just who and what Gabriel was. The color white could not keep a secret. Some part of Schoen understood, even as he opposed the hunter.

A confusion of images floated past Carl's eyes. A distant part of his mind registered that he was in shock, but his attention was locked elsewhere. He was focused on the kicks and punches Gabriel easily turned aside, on Schoen's increasing anger as he was unable to even get near the hunter. The friar focused on his friend's calm, efficient movements and used the motions to ground himself in the here and now, when so much of his mind wanted to crumble before what he had just seen, and what he was still witnessing.

Gabriel defended himself, only, until in his desperation Schoen grabbed the knife that lay in the snow, still wet with Lamar's blood. He hurled himself, blade-first, at Gabriel. After that, it was a struggle for control of the knife; the handle, slippery with someone else's blood, was in constant danger of sliding to the ground. Gabriel twisted, managing to turn the blade almost at the last second. He felt the metal slide over flesh, glance off bone. A hot rush of blood hit his skin.

Schoen fell, gasping, to the earth. The knife was deeply lodged near his heart. In near-silence, the master trainer gurgled out his last breath in a froth of crimson foam that spilled from his lips.

Several heartbeats passed in silence. With a loud roar that startled a yell from the jumpy friar, the pyre rekindled, rolling heat and stench in a wave through the clearing. Sunlight returned to light the blood-soaked snow. All was as it had been, though nothing was completely finished and everything was still horribly wrong. Derek Hastings was lying unconscious off to the side. Lamar slept deeply on a table tainted with the wasting of innocent lives. Gabriel washed his hands of the blood of the guilty, the white cloth draping his form only highlighting the lingering glow that caressed his figure, and did not seem to want to leave. Carl was breathing hard, steadying himself from the awful shock he had just received, from the quick rush of violence and death that would have overwhelmed anyone else. Everything was different; nothing had changed.

But for now, it was over.


	23. Chapter 23

Four men made their way to the Austin cabin, stumbling in at sunset. They were cold, wet and tired, coated in grime and filth. An elusive, frightening smell hung about them, daring to be identified.

They obviously did not expect to find anyone there. Mathilde and Tanya had been sent to the church, Ben and Ned instructed to follow. It was Lamar who received the first hard shock, upon opening the door to find those very four seated civilly at the table for the evening meal. He stopped dead, prompting the friar behind him to raise his voice exhaustedly. "Let us in, Lamar. It's damn cold out here."

Helplessly, the strangely-clad Jerusalemite moved to the side. Mathilde was staring, and Tanya was sipping her soup, large eyes peeking over the rim of the bowl at the newcomers.

"I – um," Lamar began.

"What – why have you brought us here," hissed the mayor. Mathilde was finally able to see him, and frowned as she took in his appearance. Despite the cold, he was wearing very thin black clothes, loose and flowing – a complete departure from his usual style. Always impeccably groomed, his hands and face were smudged with ash, and he stank of sweat and something much more unwholesome.

Mathilde flew to her feet, wringing her hands as the final figure moved through the door and closed it behind him. Gabriel's clothes were similar to the mayor's, and it was easy to tell that they had been white once. Now, the garments were dusted with gray ash and smeared with charcoal.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say the four of you had been playing in someone's hearth," she told them lightly, covering her surprise.

They glanced at one another, almost guiltily.

Lamar's jaw sagged.

"Um, well, you see -" Carl stuttered.

"Actually," Derek Hastings began determinedly.

"Not quite," Gabriel deadpanned smoothly, cutting the mayor off midstream.

Mathilde's brows rose at the sight of him. "Will I need to be lending Tony's clothes out again?" she asked with a touch of humor.

"No, thank you," he replied. "I have my own." He shifted a dark bundle of cloth that was securely tucked under one arm. Mathilde had wondered at it before. "But I believe the mayor would be in your debt if you did." The hunter's voice was remarkably cooler as he turned his attention to Derek Hastings.

For the first time, the men shifted enough that Mathilde could see Hastings' arms, bound securely in front of him. "Ben, take Ned and Tanya and go into the other room, please." Her voice was surprisingly steady.

"Mama?" Tanya asked quietly.

"Sweetheart," Mathilde responded firmly, turning to pick her daughter up. "The adults need to have a grown-up conversation. Read to Ben and Ned, please, until I call you back to finish your supper."

The small girl nodded solemnly as her mother passed her off the Ben. Gabriel met the towheaded youth's eyes and nodded, promising an explanation. The door closed softly behind them. Only then did the four men spread out fully – and Mathilde could see bloodstains on some of their clothes. Lamar's shirt was spotted lightly with the substance, and there were dark stains on Hastings' black clothing that could not be explained. One cuff on the sleeve of Gabriel's shirt was liberally dipped in the gruesome stuff, and the way he kept the other hand firmly hidden within his bundle of clothes made Mathilde certain that it was also stained with blood. Of them all, it seemed only Carl had escaped mostly unscathed. Even he had a thin line of red scoring across one arm. But around the four men hung a smell of rank decay and death – something Mathilde belatedly recognized with less shock than she ought to have felt, she thought.

"I will get the clothes for you," she told them sternly. "But I would like an explanation in return." She took the silence that greeted her as agreement, and none of the men gainsaid her deal as she moved briskly to her room. When she returned, the hunter had disappeared, and Lamar had removed his shirt and was using the clean sections to wash himself, discreetly facing the wall as he used an empty basin for the task. Carl had seated himself across from Derek Hastings, who was clearly uncomfortable with where he had been placed. Someone had moved the weighty table close to the wall, and the mayor was sandwiched between the heavy logs of the wall and table, unable to escape and barely able to move. His bound hands rested in clear sight on the top of the table, next to Tanya's supper.

Mathilde pretended not to notice the longing glances he cast at the soup. She approached Lamar without embarrassment, having tended the man during his illness. He smiled and thanked her politely for the shirt, and resumed his wash. Only then did Mathilde turn to Derek, laying the pants and shirt on the table. She stared at the bindings on his wrist for a long moment, before raising her eyes to meet his.

"Alicia and I were the best of friends once," she began slowly. "We grew up together. After my brother died, she was like a sister to me."

"I know," Hastings replied softly. His confidence had been drained from him, and the man she saw now bore little resemblance to the cocky, charismatic leader who had evoked such devotion in the town.

"Do you know why we stopped speaking to each other?" Mathilde inquired gently of him, smoothing the cloth absently as her eyes flickered to the fire, and back.

"She never told me," Hastings demurred, a note of cautious curiosity in his voice.

"It was because of you," Mathilde told him bluntly. He flinched back against the wall at the steel in her tone. "I never truly thought you were good enough for my sister. I thought there was something you weren't telling her, something you weren't telling anybody. But she thought she saw something in you that I didn't." Her voice turned thoughtful. "I wonder what it was." Mathilde shook her head at the fanciful notion. "I hope that whatever it is you've done, you left her out of it."

Carl was surprised at her automatic deferral to their assessment of the situation. It was very different from her initial attitude towards Ancell's actions. Frankly, he hadn't expected even such an estranged local as Mathilde to take their word over the mayor's. It gave him hope that talking with the people of Boxborough, which Gabriel seemed bound and determined to do, would not be completely fruitless.

"She has always been a much better person than me," Hastings admitted lowly.

But Mathilde's dislike of him was not so easily mollified. "At least you have the sense to see that," she retorted sharply. "Keep the clothes – I would not want them back after you had worn them."

A terse silence filled the room, broken when Gabriel returned from the lean-to. The hunter was freshly dressed in his own clothes, with water dripping from his hair. Carl winced. He was familiar with the hunter's propensity for washing in the snow when there was aught else to use. Personally, the friar would sooner go without bathing than strip off in the freezing weather and roll in the snow. He shivered at the thought.

Mathilde's sharp eyes caught the motion, and she brought him a bowl of soup. The widow sniffed haughtily at the mayor's hopeful look, but was not mean-spirited enough to deny him. Carl thanked her as Gabriel helped himself to the food on the stove. Lamar finished washing and moved over to sit next to Carl.

"Hastings will be brought with us to Rome, to be tried for his crimes." It was the friar who spoke up, surprisingly firm on this point.

"Crimes?" Mathilde asked pointedly. She slid a bowl of soup over to Lamar, muttering lowly into the silence about being glad she had cooked extra tonight.

Carl opened his mouth to answer, and then hesitated. Finding nothing to say, he quickly tipped a spoonful of soup into his mouth, sitting up straight as he burned his tongue. His face drew up in pain, but he swallowed quickly, wincing as the burning liquid went down.

Mathilde glanced at all the men around her, but none seemed about to give her a response – in fact, all were looking, with varying emotions, in the same direction. Following their gazes, Mathilde saw Gabriel crouched on the floor, feeding the last of his soup to Ned as he murmured to the dog. A long-fingered hand rubbed the black head, and the dog panted happily, resting his chin on the hunter's knee once he was done licking the bowl clean.

"His crimes," Gabriel affirmed, his attention seemingly given over to Ned. He recited the list as if by rote. "Sorcery, black magicks. Perjury and conspiracy against the Order. Accomplice to murder, attempted murder." Mathilde was wringing her hands fiercely, and took two steps toward the hunter when the man seemed loathe to continue.

Gabriel stood then, turning to look at her for the first time that evening. A hand rested on Ned's head, but it was unclear just who was deriving more comfort from the simple touch. "And murder," the hunter whispered. Sorrowful eyes met hers, and held. "I'm sorry."

Mathilde wavered on her feet, and Carl was the first one to reach her. He guided the woman to the nearest seat. Unhappily, it was almost directly across from the man who had killed her husband.

The story had fully come out in the woods, as the flames licking over the corpses had dwindled to nothing. The bodies had crumbled to ash at their touch, and Gabriel had demanded to know just what the hell they had thought they were doing. Derek Hastings, physically and emotionally spent, had crumbled. The story that had poured from him was horribly tragic, and completely senseless.

"Why?" Mathilde demanded raggedly. She grasped his bound hands, forcing him to look at her. "_Why!_"

Hastings lifted his eyes to hers helplessly. "He was in the way," he whispered. "He defied us."

Anthony Austin had been shot in the back, cravenly killed for protecting his wife and daughter, and the boy and dog that they had taken in. "You will not put that guilt on her," Gabriel had ordered the mayor upon learning the truth. "No one needs to live with that knowledge." Something in his voice had promised retribution, should the mayor disobey; but Derek Hastings was too cowed to oppose him. The events of the day were burned into his memory – he had not been protected when the full force of Gabriel's true nature had been unleashed. He would not forget without interference.

Mathilde buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving in silent sobs. Lamar patted her gently on the back, and she turned her face into his shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks. Concerned and vaguely terrified by the force of her emotion, the Jerusalemite was left almost helplessly holding her, rubbing her back gently and trying to soothe the distraught woman.

Gabriel surveyed the scene with wise eyes, and turned once more, whispering softly to Ned. The dog tilted its head and looked at him, before nodding once. No one saw this quiet conversation; the men at the table were absorbed in Mathilde's misery. Away from his father's spell, Derek Hastings looked wretched and unhappy – but remorse for his actions meant nothing now.

Mathilde spent her grief, and quietly collected herself. She moved silently around the room, cleaning the table and taking refuge in mindless chores. She passed the hunter and paused. "Get him out of here soon," she begged, too low for the others to hear. "_Please._"

The hunter nodded. It was not yet full dark outside. He had not intended to stay here long, initially – just to give them a chance to rest after the day's tiring work.

After Schoen had died, Hastings had been tied and woken, and their labors had begun. Clearing away the bodies and the remnants of the dark magic being worked around the town had been hard and filthy work. The hunter had expended his energy in dismantling the pentacle around the town, erasing the dark cloud hovering over Boxborough while they waited for the pyre to burn out. Then, he had helped Lamar, Carl and Hastings collect the bodies from the fire. Flesh had crunched underfoot and dissolved at their touch. It had taken time for all the remains to be transferred to the hidden cave in the south end of the ravine. Derek Hastings had told them of its existence as a secure location for the burial. It was where his father had lived for the last year, where all his workings and plans had begun in secret. Once the bodies had been moved, and all traces of ash and blood smothered into the dirt, Carl had devised a way to collapse the roof of the cave. All evidence was now securely buried under several tons of dirt and stone. The proper words had been said over the makeshift grave that contained the bodies of Anthony Austin, Warren Gray, and three men from the nearby town of Acton – Henry Zimmerman, Paul Havelock and Finn Jones, as well as Schoen and Ancell. It had finally been done.

In the moments following the widow's plea, Gabriel gathered the others and told them just where they were headed. Taking Carl aside, he spoke privately with the friar.

"When we get to the church, I want you to speak to the townspeople," Gabriel informed him.

Carl gulped, eyes wide. "Me?"

"You," Gabriel affirmed, a small smile playing over his lips. "How's the arm?"

Carl shrugged, patting it gently. Mathilde had bandaged it for him while he ate. "Good as new. Better."

Gabriel grew serious once more. "The townspeople look up to you, for your skills and position. They will listen, if you explain to them. The last thing we need is a mob, baying for blood. You can keep them rational. They would never listen to Lamar."

"What about you?" Carl challenged playfully.

Gabriel snorted. "I'm no good at it. You can make them listen, make them see reason. Just remember – no one needs to know the details."

Carl suddenly thought of something. "What about the Pardoes?"

Gabriel's face went blank. "Don't worry. I'll take care of them."

Carl looked at him searchingly. Gabriel noticed his gaze, and his expression softened. "What?" he asked, a little defensively.

"When you say you'll take care of them, you don't mean -"

"Carl," the hunter groaned in exasperation.

Less than half an hour later, the four men had made their way through the growing darkness to the town. The few people on the streets saw them immediately, and followed them to the church. Most of the rest of the congregation of Boxborough was there, waiting for the evening mass.

Voices broke into the silence, growing louder and louder as Derek Hastings' position became clear. Gabriel urged Carl into the pulpit, and the friar grasped the wood in front of him uncertainly. He had to shout several times to get everyone's attention, but the people of Boxborough quieted as soon as they realized what was going on.

Carl began to speak, outlining what had been taking place in the town, under their very noses, for the past year. As he told them of the atrocities that had taken place, Gabriel moved carefully down the side of the church, using the time to search out his quarry. Kevin and Louisa Pardoe were sitting together near the back, luckily. The hunter nodded as he heard Carl emphasize how laws of the Order had been violated, stressing as most important the ones which governed acceptable personal conduct. The friar had missed a calling; he easily commanded the attention of at least two hundred, and there was no fear of the people getting out of hand now.

With a look, he had them scurrying from him, and he herded them out the door before they realized that there was nowhere left to go.

"What do you want?" Pardoe snapped, head high and bluffing for all he was worth.

"Tell me," Gabriel murmured. "Did you ever find out why those drugs didn't work on me?"

Louisa gaped, and Kevin glared at her. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied superciliously, valiantly ignoring his wife's guilty expression.

"Joseph Hastings is dead," Gabriel snapped, and had the satisfaction of seeing Pardoe pale before he recovered.

"For about a year now," he managed, but his voice was not as even as he would have liked, judging from his expression.

"So are Robert Ancell and Jason Schoen, but their deaths occurred much more recently. It was discovered that they were involved in something truly . . . unholy."

Pardoe shivered at the dark tone, and it was a moment before he could stutter, "That's truly unfortunate. I believe your friend Carl is giving us the full explanation inside. It's regretful that we're going to miss it, as we seem to be detained out here."

Gabriel had to give him credit for sheer courage, if not tact or subtlety. "Pity," he muttered.

Kevin Pardoe gave him a look of affected confusion, which all too easily slid into distaste.

"I wanted to let you know I'll be by after the meeting tonight to collect my belongings," Gabriel changed the subject for the final time, catching them off-guard once more. He pretended not to notice the way Louisa struggled for her composure, and Kevin's fixed expression of bare civility. "I've found alternate accommodations."

Kevin growled out a, "Pleasant evening," to which Gabriel quirked a brow and nodded, hiding a smile. Pardoe grabbed his wife's arm, and stalked down the street, half-dragging her along behind. He only got a few steps before she swiped him upside the head, hard. He let go, and the two nearly raced back to their home, the air around them thick with their plotting.

Gabriel wasn't surprised to go to their home later and find it abandoned, swiftly stripped of everything of use or value. They had cut and run, before judgment could descend on them as well. It didn't matter to the hunter. Rome had agents everywhere. He had utmost confidence that they wouldn't get far. While they had waited for the fire to burn down that morning and afternoon, Gabriel had sent Carl and Lamar to Acton, to cable a message to Rome. He had used those four hours they had been gone wisely, finding out everything he could from Derek Hastings without fear of how the knowledge would impact his friend.

The Vatican was on the alert to watch out for several individuals, among them the Pardoes. In all likelihood, they would head to the nearest city, hoping to get lost among the masses or to gain quick transportation elsewhere. In either case, the Vatican was easily prepared to deal with the iniquitous couple.

The meeting had gone well. Telling the people of the crimes and impending justice without rousing them to fury had been all too easy for Carl. Despite the fact that the friar broke into a sweat at the thought of speaking in front of so many people, he was blessed with a gift for commanding attention, and had the wit to keep it.

It appeared that only Schoen, the Pardoes, and Ancell had been party to Derek and Joseph Hastings' plots. It was inconceivable that everyone should be so good at pretending shock and dismay at some of the more awful news revealed, and Gabriel had returned in time to gauge the reactions of the townspeople. The secret had been kept well and close. Luke Rosenthal approached him later to apologize for the attack. Aghast at his actions, he explained that the assault on the hunter had been explained away as a realistic training exercise. He'd been led to believe that the scene at Mathilde's house was also an exercise, in detecting and removing a witch without undue notice or injury to innocents. He had acted in the firm belief that Gabriel, Carl and Lamar were likewise acting, and that his every move was being tested and measured. Once outside, he'd been immediately dismissed to the smithy – a story which Lamar was able to confirm.

That so few people had been involved didn't surprise the hunter. They were the ones in power, pulling the strings that made others dance, controlling the information to keep anyone from figuring out what they were actually doing. The best-kept secret was the one known by the fewest people.

It was this knowledge which so clearly distressed the people. None were more betrayed, however, than Hastings' family. His wife was much improved, surprisingly, and when Gabriel approached her he sensed something different about her. Likewise, she smiled when she saw him. He was admittedly taken aback by the warm welcome; it was wholly unusual and rare, in his experience. But his suspicions were confirmed when she gave him a measuring look, and then seemed to understand something. The few words she whispered to him clarified everything. Alicia was one of those rare people who could truly empathize with others. More sensitive to their surroundings than most, such intangible things as emotion and mood affected people like Alicia more than most, as they were attuned to the feelings washing through the air around them. The cloud smothering the town had been the ultimate source of her illness. Healing came for her when it was dispelled.

The confrontation Derek Hastings had with his family took place after the meeting had dissolved, the people returning to their homes feeling shocked and deceived by those in which they had placed their trust. In the relative privacy of his own kitchen, Derek admitted to his wife and sons his role in the debauched blasphemy taking place in the woods. Alicia was composed but pale, and it was the reactions of Tyler and Eric which concerned the hunter the most. The boys were quiet, and gave no indication of their feelings. Whether they cleaved to their previous image of their father, or accepted the man with his failings, was ultimately unclear, as the teenagers excused themselves on account of the late hour.

That night, Gabriel guarded Hastings in shifts with Carl, and the fully recovered Lamar. When he slept, his rest was the first since reaching America that was not plagued by nightmares of past evil and worries of what might come.

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The previous chapter may be the climax, but we're nowhere near done – I'm projecting that we won't see the end before #25 – and that's if I make like Speedy Gonzalez. So don't panic! There's more, for all my faithful reviewers out there!


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Just as a warning, I do discuss religion later in this chapter. My views, which I have been told by someone who would know, are humanistic and are expressed in the way I view certain situations and the answers to certain questions. I do not apologize for them; I simply thought you should be warned. If anyone has an alternate opinion, I am open to discussion. Email me.

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"Come, sirs! Regale us with a song or tale from home!" the man urged. "We would like to hear more of our people's great fight, our true battles and victories!"

It was their last night in Boxborough, and for the first time, they were meeting with the people of the town free of the Hastings' influence.

Gabriel sat back and looked at Carl. "Me?" the friar asked him, a note of panic in his voice.

"I do _not_ sing," Gabriel told him definitively, holding back a smile.

"So there's no truth to the rumors?" Carl sniped agitatedly, mindless of the many people of Boxborough who were watching the exchange with amusement. "Choirs of angels, and all that?"

A few of the men around them laughed wholeheartedly. The hunter glared.

"I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket," Lamar said without a hint of shame, raising his hands defensively as Carl turned to him with a gleam in his eye.

"Besides, Lamar's still not well," Gabriel grinned wickedly at him, maintaining the story Carl had spun to gloss over the more unbelievable facets of their tale. "And I've heard you sing. Mostly drinking songs, but I have heard you sing."

It was Carl's turn to glare, fighting off a blush at the gleeful chortling that statement evoked, but his anger bounced uselessly off the hunter.

"All right," he sighed, giving way before the voices clamoring for a song. The friar thought for a moment, searching for something appropriate. When he next opened his mouth, the tale fell easily from his lips in a lilting tenor. It was a poem put to song some generations ago, by a member of the Order who had been musically inclined. The words described one day in his life, enumerating chores and duties, with an undertone of darkness and triumph. The story told in Carl's clear voice was spellbinding, and long enough to satisfy even the most avid of their American brethren.

"Magnificent," the man breathed. He sat back contentedly, and slowly, conversation began to flow around them once more.

The last few days had been less troublesome than Gabriel had hoped, which came as a relief. Hastings had been removed to the local lockup, and was left mostly alone. Lamar had journeyed into Acton to secure passage from Boston back to Rome, and had been successful. Carl's notes on the current work going on in the town were complete. As for the hunter, he had been able to spend time with Ben. He'd needed to speak with the youth about what he'd seen, what had been happening in the clearing. Also, the way Pardoe had grabbed the towheaded lad and forced him along the path had infuriated Gabriel. After a few hours of instruction, Ben knew about nerve points and their uses as defensive weapons. The boy was a quick study, and the trio of man, youth and dog spent several pleasant hours together.

Ben's time in Boxborough was over. It had been a safe haven for him, for awhile, a place for him to rest and recover. But ultimately, the town had also been a source of some of the worst evil the boy had ever seen in his life. The place would forever be a font of nightmares, lurking in the back of his mind. It was past time for Ben and Ned to leave. They would be going with Gabriel, Carl, Lamar and Hastings to England, but no further, not yet.

Hastings. Gabriel frowned. He had no control over the man's fate, and truly hadn't had any since the battle in the clearing had concluded. Whatever would happen to him had yet to be determined, and that decision rested in Rome. With Gaspar.

The hunter ran an exhausted hand over his face. Despite the fact that Lamar was now well, the scars he bore from this mission would not be erased – and for the first time in many years, Gabriel was left searching his vast memory for a reason why. It made no sense, but unfortunately there was no shortage of viable reasons. It could have been the drugs in his own system, or the fact that Carl had acted on by himself, pulling the power from Gabriel in raw form and channeling it, undirected, into Lamar. It could even be Lamar himself. The hunter had seen the man staring at the thin lines scoring his skin, rubbing thoughtfully at the scar tissue; but the Jerusalemite had not shared whatever thoughts were troubling him. Thus, there would be difficult explanations ahead, when the time came to report to the new Head of the Order.

It was more worrying than the changes he was now seeing in Carl. There was nothing precisely different about the young man, and his worry had quieted once Gabriel remembered where he had seen this before. It was simply that the friar had reached out, and touched a power that was too great for mortality to encompass. He might notice it eventually, in the few newly silvered strands of hair at his temples. It was a strange shine in his eyes that emerged every so often, when he wasn't paying attention. It was the memory of something so great and wondrous, it settled somewhere beyond definition and left the one affected scrambling to describe it. They were changes too subtle to be noticed, too fleeting to be explained, though they existed nevertheless. Luckily, however, the hunter was left with one less thing to justify to Gaspar. But the warlock's son would make up for it in spades.

His thoughts kept circling back to Hastings. The frown that seemed permanently etched on his face grew deeper.

"Weighty thoughts for a celebration," commented a light voice, rudely jerking him from his ruminations.

Alicia Hastings, the woman now running the town of Boxborough, smiled down at him. Of diminutive height, she was a lovely woman with a soothing presence. He smiled back. "Nothing of import," he murmured. She sat next to him, gentle skepticism coloring her features.

But she did not press him. "I do not see Mathilde here tonight," she observed calmly. "Nor Ben, or Ned."

"Ben and Ned have decided to journey with us. They wanted to spend their last night home with family."

At this explanation, Alicia nodded. "I thought they might not be with us for much longer." She smiled. "Now, at least, I do not have to fear for them."

Gabriel winced slightly. Such empathy was difficult, often lending the individual affected to pick up on feelings and desires that others were planning to act on. It was an extremely loose type of prophecy, given to change at a whim.

"How are your sons? Tyler, and Eric?"

She accepted that he wanted to change the subject, easily moving on to another topic. "They are well." Alicia shrugged faintly. "They are not here tonight, but I did not expect them to come. Tyler still struggles with belief, while Eric is feeling betrayed. Both see the evil that has occurred, yet neither of my sons can conceive that their father believed he was doing good. I am wrestling with it, myself."

"It is a difficult thing, to believe yourself betrayed by one you love," Gabriel murmured.

Alicia started. "You speak as if you have undergone something similar," she questioned curiously.

Gabriel's eyes were far away, and at her words his attention was pulled back into the festive meeting house, down into a room full of chatter and laughter, music and storytelling. "No. Not I." His thoughts were on someone dear to him, Alicia could sense, and Gabriel's mind had long since turned to a man who had been a younger brother in all but blood – because he, after all, was not mortal.

Thoughts of another time, past and future. Shaking his head, Gabriel offered Alicia a smile, which became genuine as Carl began to sing once more. This time, the tune offered was a rowdy sea shanty, overheard from Ben and never forgotten. A genuine laugh burst from the hunter at the conclusion, the mood of the celebration lightened considerably.

And so the night passed, full of merriment and joy as the people of Boxborough celebrated their freedom from darkness and the departure of new friends.

The following day, Gabriel, Carl and Lamar set out early from the Widow's house, making their way into town to collect Hastings. It was something that made Gabriel nervous. As they left the lockup and moved back eastward, his anxiety only grew. The people of the town were out and about, gathering quietly as they continued through the main square. Should they decide that they wanted to keep Hastings here, they would have little trouble stopping the hunter and his companions. But they seemed content to simply line the streets and watch as Carl led the other three toward the path. Lamar had silently refused to put his back to Hastings, which left Gabriel with one hand firmly on the former mayor's arm as the Jerusalemite brought up the rear.

His every sense was alert as they came to the end of the street, and Alicia Hastings was standing before them, blocking the way. He met her eyes for a moment, as she focused in on each of them individually. "Before we were pulled into darkness, there was a tradition in our community. We welcomed each new arrival with festivities, and sent them off with the same. At the moment of their departure, we would gather, and wish them well. Today, I revive that ceremony. Godspeed!" she cried.

The people of Boxborough threw the word back at her in a roaring echo; their brothers from Rome were caught in the collision of sound. "Godspeed!"

Alicia smiled, then, and nodded, stepping out of their way to leave the path clear before them. "Go with the Lord."

Similar words, words of goodwill and prayer, sounded lowly as they passed the last of the townspeople. Only when the sound had faded away, as they came to Mathilde Austin's home, did they truly feel as if they had left Boxborough behind.

Ben came out to meet them, followed by Mathilde, who was carrying Tanya. The boy exchanged a few words with his surrogate family, while the men checked their packs and belongings one last time. The boy and dog had finished their goodbyes before the men had completed their check, and came to stand beside them. Mathilde set Tanya down, and the two followed at a more sedate pace.

When she reached the men, holding Tanya's hand, she did no more than stare expressionlessly at Hastings, for several long moments. There was no hate in her gaze, but neither could any shred of pity be found. She kept her daughter behind her, well away from him, and coldly dismissed the murderer from her attention. Moving on, Mathilde looked at the hunter judiciously. "I think I now understand what it is you do, Mr. Van Helsing." And then she surprised them both by saying, "Thank you."

Uncomfortable, the hunter settled for touching his hat in acknowledgement. "You're welcome."

Mathilde turned from him to Carl, and shook the friar's hand firmly. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wheldon."

Carl thanked her politely, smoothly returning the compliment. When Mathilde came to Lamar, she smiled at him, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. The two exchanged several words too low for the others to hear, and Gabriel kicked Carl when the friar tried, not-so-discreetly, to edge closer.

Ben saw the interchange, and hid a smile. Mathilde came to him last, and rubbed Ned's head affectionately, whispering a few words in his ear. When she at last turned to the boy, Tanya threw herself on Ned, stifling sobs in the dog's fur. The black Lab compassionately licked her hand, and she clung tighter.

"Look at you," Mathilde breathed, her eyes bright with tears. She hugged him, and then held him out at arm's length. A trembling laugh broke from her lips, as she gently smoothed his tousled hair back from his forehead. "You look almost just as you did when you came strolling into my yard, whistling and playing with that great hound of yours."

Ben smiled, but there were tears on his cheeks as well. Mathilde smiled at him, and he smiled bravely back. "None of this, now," she told him, wiping his face with a corner of her apron. "Be good, Ben." Ned nudged her, and she rubbed his ears fondly. "You too, Ned."

Ben nodded, and threw himself at her for a last hug. She murmured quietly in his ear, and they slowly parted. Tanya grabbed Ben, sobbing quietly, but he spoke softly to her, gently disentangling himself. Tanya latched on to her mother, burying her face in Mathilde's shoulder as she cried.

As the group turned and left the Widow's home, Gabriel caught Ben glancing back only once. Ned looked straight ahead, but he bumped his head under the boy's hand, asking for a scratch. The lad and his dog turned their faces away, then, and on to the fresh road they were traveling. Gabriel's heart ached at the sight.

The day's journey was somewhat slower, but they had ample time. Traveling through the waning winter, it seemed to those from Rome that the freezing chill that had maintained its icy grip over Boxborough, even into March, was lessening. The day was unseasonably warm, and through the woods around them, the noise of melting ice and falling snow could be heard.

The silence that had reigned throughout the hours of walking continued as they made camp, in the same place they had stayed on their first night in America. It an ironic juxtaposition, Hastings was the one bound to a tree in this clearing. In unspoken agreement, the watch was split three ways, with Carl taking the first, Gabriel the middle, and Lamar the last.

The night passed quietly, and when the hunter woke, the stars had shifted enough to tell him that it was past time for his turn at watch. Scuffing free of his blankets, he clambered to his feet and moved to where the friar was sitting, eyes roving around the clearing warily.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Gabriel sat next to him, stifling a yawn. The hunter scrubbed hands over his face, banishing the last of his sleepiness.

Carl shrugged. "Not tired."

It was an unusually succinct answer for the normally talkative man. Gabriel frowned. Carl spotted the expression out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth twisted. The friar's attention turned, with practiced ease, to Hastings. The man was curled at the base of one of the trees supporting their shelter. Because he was so far from the fire, he had been given two extra blankets. The only parts of him which were visible were the top of his dark head, and the bound hands poking from the nest of cloth. "What's going to happen to him when we get to Rome?"

The question which had no doubt been plaguing the young man since the cable had arrived from the Vatican.

Gabriel shrugged. He had only a rudimentary idea. The grisly joke was more truth than rumor – he rarely brought back alive the charges he was told to pursue. Most of the time when he was the one sent out, it meant that the Vatican didn't want or expect him to, no matter how the orders were worded. He had been their tamed tool for over four years, unleashed to wreak destruction on the forces of evil, because he was good at it. Jinnette had tried to obscure the issue, claiming that it had been clear to all those in power that Gabriel "had been sent to do God's work." The old Cardinal had been right, but not in the way he'd thought.

Gabriel snorted softly. He had definitely not lost his memory "as a penance for past sins". It had been a fully calculated tactic, and had worked beautifully. But that was beside the point – and he still hadn't answered Carl's question.

"I don't know," he responded truthfully. "He may be given a trial within the Order. On the other hand, he may simply be judged by Gaspar and sentenced. I truly don't know."

Carl sighed softly. "I don't know what to expect," he confessed. "If Hastings survived that disaster in the woods just to -"

"There are two types of forgiveness," Gabriel interrupted firmly. The friar held no responsibility or guilt for whatever Hastings' eventual fate, and Carl must be made to see that clearly. "There is the mortal kind, which comes in many shapes and forms, if it comes at all. The other kind is only given out by God, and requires only one thing to be granted."

"What is that?" As ever, the friar's curiosity could not let something as tantalizing as that statement lie ignored, especially when the hunter was offering it unprompted.

"Repentance. True penitence. That is all." He twisted the ring on his finger absently.

Carl gave up trying to make sense of where the hunter's train of logic was leading. "And?"

"And so whether Hastings is granted the second is up to him alone, and between him and God. Whether he is granted the first lies entirely in the hands of Gaspar, and the Order. There is almost nothing we can do about it. In reality, we've done all we can. He must answer for his crimes."

"I refuse to believe that there's nothing more we can do," Carl objected strongly, though his heart didn't seem to be truly into the protest. It was an argument that neither wanted to start.

The piece of jewelry that he had been distractedly fiddling with claimed the hunter's attention.

Carl heaved a sigh, and uncharacteristically let the matter drop, falling silent. His eyes moved from the man huddled within his blankets, far from the warmth of the fire, and rested on his friend's moving fingers. A somewhat questioning look on his face, he reached out to see what the hunter was toying with. His hand pulled back, aborting the attempt, when the small piece of metal caught the light of the flames.

Gabriel slowly pulled the ring from his hand, turning it over to the friar with a small smile.

"Why did you keep it, all this time?" Carl asked, skimming his fingers over the roughly-worked silver, softly changing the subject.

"It was a reminder," Van Helsing replied, hunching closer to the fire in his contemplation.

"Of what?"

The hunter paused with a frown. "Of promises fulfilled," he responded at last. "Of a duty that was to go unfinished for four hundred years."

Carl played absently with the ring for a few moments, quietly pursuing that thought. "You knew he was not truly dead?" he asked, finally.

There was a short laugh at that. "He was dead. I know death quite well – he had passed into God's judgment."

"And then the devil gave him wings," Carl said softly. The words had a tone of reminiscence about them, and both men stilled for a moment, silent in respect and grief.

Gabriel shrugged slightly. "Vladislaus Dracula still had a part to play," he said softly.

Carl snorted inelegantly. "Aye, a part in the murder of thousands," he snapped, his sudden ill-temper ugly to behold. He tossed the ring back to the hunter, who caught it effortlessly.

"All things have a purpose," Gabriel returned, and it was the weariness, as opposed to the warning, in his voice that made Carl subside.

"Even evil?" There was a soft desperation in the voice, and Gabriel started. Lamar was awake, and he didn't know how long the Jerusalemite had been listening to their conversation. Nightmares, he surmised, seeing the haunted expression in the dark man's eyes.

"Especially evil," Gabriel responded gently.

The Jerusalemite's eyes hardened at that, and he seized the blankets roughly, dragging them around himself like a shield. "How do we have a God who stands for such things?" he spat. "Is this a . . . a _test_?"

Gabriel couldn't count the times he had heard that question, or the many languages and peoples he had heard it from. His head dropped to his chest for a moment, and he breathed slowly before raising his eyes to the men who were waiting for a response.

The only reason he spoke was that he could feel the need for an answer practically vibrating from the Jerusalemite. Lamar was struggling, ultimately, with his faith, while Carl was staring with curious eyes.

"Sometimes," he admitted lowly. "Yes, it is a test of mankind, to see what he is capable of – but it is not put forth by God. Why should He have need of such a thing? He made it all. The only tests that we face are the ones put forth by evil, and one another." Gabriel glanced over at Hastings.

"But how can He allow it!" Lamar was sputtering, completely undone by this one idea, a concept that squatted in his mind and betrayed his sense of justice.

Gabriel looked at him compassionately. "How can he _not_?" Lamar's eyes bugged out, and he gaped. Mouth working soundlessly, the Jerusalemite stared in disbelief. "God gave mankind many gifts," Gabriel slowly explained, searching for a way to put words to something ineffable. "Among the foremost of these is free will." Language escaped his grasp then, and he waited patiently for the idea to come to the forefront of his mind. "He loves his children. And for love of you, he could never take that gift away, not from any. To take from one is to take from all."

"But the creature – Beelzebul . . ." Carl began doubtfully.

Gabriel laughed then. "You think I do not have the freedom to choose my course, Carl? All of His sons were given that gift, as well as His children. Beelzebul, as he is now called, made a choice as well."

Lamar looked at him despairingly. "If things such as _that_ have the power you say, and the will to use it -"

"I have made a choice as well." Hazel eyes, shining golden in the firelight, rested lightly on him. "There is always law, and there are always rules, but choice exists for all of us." The entrancing eyes turned, to rest on the still-sleeping Hastings. "The choice to do good, or to do evil."

Gabriel looked at the ring that had been enveloped in his fist. The winged serpent sneered back at him, and he contemplated it for a moment before reaching a sudden decision. His face void of expression, the hunter took up the ring once more and cast it into the flames.


	25. Chapter 25

Carl opened his eyes, and breathed a hefty sigh of relief. Rolling over, he hugged his pillow fiercely, burrowing deeper in his blankets. A growl escaped his lips at the sharp knock on his door.

The return trip to Rome had been miserable. Awful weather had left the ship at the mercy of the waves. As a result, the tossing and crashing of the craft on the water had left Lamar and Hastings terribly sick. After the first day belowdecks, Carl had joined them in unpleasant, heaving illness. He had been able to tolerate the weather on the way to Transylvania on his first assignment with Van Helsing. But he had been abovedecks then, in the open air where the floor rolling beneath his feet had not seemed too strange. Consigned to his bunk, the nonchalant manner in which Gabriel and Ben had tolerated the shuddering of the world around them had been increasingly irritating.

Ben had left them, disappearing into the crowds at Liverpool. He had somewhere he needed to be, he explained with a half-smile. He had left them, saying goodbye to each one. Except Gabriel. To the hunter's surprise, the youth had grabbed him in a fierce hug, and Ned had jumped up on him as well. When they had finally broken apart, Gabriel had said with a smile, "Remember what I told you. If you need me, I'll be there." The words had been meant for Ben and Ned alone – Carl had overheard by chance, and the emotion between them had caused a lump to rise in this throat. He'd overlooked it, but somehow, the boy had come to love the hunter as a father, and Gabriel returned the emotion in full. It had happened out of his notice, in the words the two had shared and the time they spent together, and he felt like a fool to have missed it.

The knock sounded again, louder, and Carl moaned audibly. Crawling from his blankets, he swore as his feet made contact with the chilled floor. Padding quickly to the door, he opened it to see Gabriel leaning against the jamb.

"What?" he asked blearily, casting a longing glance back at his bed.

"Good morning," Gabriel answered, much more cheerfully than the tetchy friar.

"The first one home, and you had to wake me? It is dawn yet?" Carl snarled.

Gabriel took a step back, brows rising. "It's almost noon, Carl."

"What?" Panic replaced grumpiness, and the friar searched frantically for some means of telling the time. "That can't be right!"

"I thought you might want to eat before the kitchens stopped serving lunch," Gabriel continued. He carefully eyed the now racing Carl, who sped through the room pulling on clothes and shoes. Gabriel moved further into the hall, away from the frenetic activity. A shoe hurtled through the air where his head had been, and he was briefly thankful for honed instincts that were attuned for all types of danger. "Hungry?" he asked mildly.

A loud rumbling, coming from the direction of a certain unnamed friar's stomach, was loud enough for both to hear. Carl flushed uncomfortably.

The meal was big enough to fill him, as he ravenously devoured all food set in front of him. Gabriel sat on the bench opposite, leaning against the wall and surveying the entire scene with a tolerantly amused expression which hovered on the edge of being fully revealed.

As he chewed, Carl took stock of the bustling activity around him. During their journey back across the Atlantic, winter had melted from the Eternal City. March was now half-over, and spring was in full control of the weather and people. It was remarkable. With a lessening of the cold and the coming of light rains, a green smell freshened the air, lightening everyone's step. The cook was happily complaining once more, as she did every year, about the mud being tracked in. Deacon Ceslovas, overseer of all gardens in the Vatican, was energetically and thoroughly running all of his helpers ragged. But even they smiled, to be finally free of stuffy corridors and rooms, working once more with the earth and its bounty.

Things seemed to have settled considerably in the month or so they had been away. Gaspar had taken the time to become accustomed to his position, or so it seemed. Most of the people Carl encountered seemed comfortable with the situation, and the nervous anxiety that had resulted from Jinette's abrupt decision to step down had dissipated.

Speaking of which.

"Do you know what Gaspar's going to do with Hastings?" Carl's attention was fully fixed on the bowl of fruit sitting almost out of range at the edge of the table. His question was more of an afterthought, to pull the taciturn hunter out of his brooding. He reached out, snagging a ripe pear, and took a healthy bite.

"I believe he's going to be hearing the case this afternoon."

This time, Carl choked. "You just have to tell me these things while I'm eating?"

Gabriel shrugged, mischief lighting his eyes. "You asked."

Carl coughed, reaching for a glass of water. A sturdy gulp later had him gasping for air, eyes watering. He hacked for a few more moments, taking careful sips, and was soon recovered. He glared at the hunter, trying to convey an affront too strong for words.

Judging by Gabriel's wicked smirk, he failed.

Carl bit into a piece of bread, and a question came into his mind.

The hunter stared at him in complete bewilderment. "What?"

Chewing deliberately, Carl rolled his eyes and swallowed. Then he repeated, much more coherently, "Do we need to be there?"

"Oh. I haven't received a summons from Gaspar." At this his mouth twisted into an indefinable expression. "I don't know, but I don't think so. Jinnette used to use primarily evidence from reports. Whenever he desired for that evidence to be corroborated by testimony, I would receive notice that my presence was required."

"Safe bet Jinnette will be there."

"Mmm," the hunter agreed, resettling his shoulders against the wall.

"We should be too," Carl decided on the moment.

"Mmm," Gabriel hummed distantly, his eyes focused on the far wall.

A little surprised by the noncommittal answer, Carl frowned. "What does that mean?"

The hunter shrugged, still not meeting his eyes.

"Gabriel?"

The hunter sat up straighter, resting his arms on the table in a rare gesture of relaxation. "I don't think we should," he said slowly. "Or, at the least, I don't think you should."

Carl was surprised, and a bit affronted. "Why not?"

At the defensiveness of his answer, a cool mask settled down over the hunter's features. It was so subtle that if the friar hadn't been scrutinizing the other for his answer, he would have missed it for certain. "I think it's a bad idea," the hunter responded frankly. "I go when I must, but I find it doesn't help."

"Help whom?" Carl asked stridently. "You, or the one you bring in?"

At the sharp accusation, Gabriel shifted backward, moving infinitesimally away from the other's rage. A sense of distance, small but unmistakable, fell into the silence between them. "Neither," he breathed, so lowly that Carl didn't hear it.

"He must receive a fair trial," Carl insisted stubbornly. "Otherwise where's the point? In _any_ of this?" A sweeping arm, moving to encompass the whole of the Vatican, knocked the bowl of fruit from the table. Moving with preternatural speed, the hunter caught it in midair, and then settled it back on the tabletop.

"Why would you have cause to doubt the fairness of our system?" Gabriel asked, instead of trying to answer the ineffable, rhetorical questions the friar had put forth.

"I have not seen it," Carl returned. His face grew thoughtful. "In fact, I have never heard of the final fate of any of the assignments which were brought back to the Vatican. I'm curious," he admitted openly. "And something about that doesn't seem right." The friar's mind was also on Alicia Hastings, who had given kind words to him, despite his role in her husband's arrest. On his two sons, and the people of Boxborough who had trusted in him. On Hastings' actions, preventing his father from killing Lamar. A sense of sympathy for the man was strong in him; he could easily see that Hastings was a victim of circumstance, more than anything.

Gabriel could see the emotions on his friend's face. "Mercy is a wonderful thing, Carl," he murmured, pulling the friar out of his thoughts. "I am glad you possess so much of it. But do not let it overwhelm your reason."

"Excuse me?" Carl didn't have to pretend at anger.

Gabriel's eyes seemed to darken, his voice harden as he spoke. He sat further back, the space between them widening. "I know that in the clearing, Hastings never directly threatened you. That role was taken by his father, and so the son would seem a lesser evil, more harmless, in your mind. After all, he did not gift you with a scar to remember Boxborough by." Gabriel's eyes rested on Carl's arm, the bandage hidden under layers of cloth. The gash was mostly healed by now at any rate. "But he is not innocent," the hunter finished darkly. "He can't have stood by, participated in murder, and still claim there is no blood on his hands. It is a sin of omission, if not a sin of commission. I do not think you should go to the trial today."

Carl flared at the certainty in the other's voice. "I know what I saw and heard," he defended himself stoutly. "I am not blind, or in need of protection from the facts of life. But I do not think he is as guilty as everyone seems to assume."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, his face unreadable, and asked softly, "You are determined to go, then?"

Carl raised his chin in defiance. "Yes."

There was a beat of silence, before Gabriel nodded. "Jinnette or Gaspar will know when and where," he told him. He sat back in silence, eyes hooded to hide the secrets swirling within.

Uncomfortable with the awkwardness that had some how sprung between them, Carl asked, with a pale intimation of his usual curiosity, tempered by a sense of peacekeeping, "Are you going?"

The hunter's mouth thinned. "Not unless I have to."

Carl frowned. "Well then," he huffed at the cold answer. Inordinately dissatisfied, he scraped his bench back from the table and stood. "I'll be seeing you." With that, Carl stalked away from the table, refusing to look back. He rudely brushed by another man trying to get in the door, knocking a piece of paper from his grasp. But Carl was in a foul, fey mood, and ignored the other man, continuing onward instead.

He wandered the halls aimlessly for a bit, refusing the urge to go back and apologize. Apologize? For what? He was perfectly entitled to hold his own views, after all. Pushing his strange confusion over the odd conversation out of his mind, he hunted down Jinnette, and found the older man quietly reading in one of the lower archive rooms. The trial would start in less than an hour, in one of the back rooms of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences.

Given the time, Carl returned to his room and spent the extra minutes in washing himself and cleaning up, feeling relieved once he had finished. The walk succeeded in calming him, in helping him gather his thoughts and order what he intended to say.

When he arrived in the room, he found that it was nothing at all like he had imagined. There was a row of seats in front, facing the room. Half of these were already occupied. Higher members of the Order were scattered in them, and among them were some that Carl recognized. He saw Jinnett, Bharat, and a scribe with whom he was familiar. There was one chair facing these seats, sitting solitary in front of them. The rest of the room was consumed by rows of seats behind this one, which Carl assumed was designated for Hastings. To his surprise, he saw Van Helsing sitting to the left in the first row of seats set aside for public viewing. He moved, by a sudden impulse, to the opposite side of the room and remained one row back. The hunter didn't seem to notice him, and the room quickly filled.

Gaspar arrived, moving to the center seat facing other members of the order. All rose, in respect, and Gaspar sat. Hastings was brought in, and Carl frowned at the sight of the man. He was bedraggled and unshaven, his clothes clearly not his own and lamentably dirtied. Heavy chains weighed down his wrists and hobbled his ankles as he shuffled slowly forward to the chair waiting for him. He looked skinny and underfed, smudges beneath green eyes from weariness and cheeks hollowed from the strain of anxiety. The sight was pitiable to behold.

Gaspar began without preamble, spreading several papers on the table that had been set in readiness for such. "Derek Hastings, former Mayor of the town of Boxborough within the Order, in the state of Massachusetts, United States. You have been removed from your position on account of your conduct, and brought to Rome for judgment. What have you to say in your own defense?"

Hastings hesitantly rose to his feet, eyes lowered. He opened his mouth slowly, and said, "I know that the charges against me are horrible, and for horrid crimes. My only defense is that I knew no better what was going on than you did." There was a soft murmur at this, but Hastings kept going, slowly lifting eyes burning with sincerity to those who stood in cold appraisal of his every action. "My father dominated my life and my will from when I was a small child. I grew up with his teachings, in his belief that the Order would always prevail in whatever we set out to do, despite hardship and loss. I was firm in the belief of the rightness of our cause, and once my father set me so firmly on the path, I felt it was something I could strive for, within and beyond his heavy influence in my life." The man's posture was earnest, pleading, and Carl felt his heartstrings twinge. "My father was a harsh man," Hastings appealed, looking directly at Gaspar. "I strove all my life to do my best, wanting him to be proud of me. The first I knew of the scheme that he hatched was a year and a half ago. My father had grown uneasy, after a coven of witches launched an attack on our village, killing many. The hunters were absent, following rumors of a poltergeist working mischief in the nearby town of Acton. My father decided that our town needed protection, for the women, elderly, and children left unprotected when the hunters went out in force. He mentioned the idea to me, and we began to research means of protection. It took nearly five months, but I came across old books that spoke of the works of the magicians of Ancient Persia.

"There was much information there, once we had deciphered its meaning. Information about pentacles, mostly; their protective uses, and main functions. There was other information there as well. Most of it was dark and evil, and I did not look at it too closely after realizing what it was." The man's voice was mournful. "I wish that I had burned those books ere -"

"Mr. Hastings," Gaspar's cold voice jarred Carl, and he jerked in surprise. The friar had been wholly caught up in the man's sorrowful tale, and as he looked around the room, he was surprised at the mix of emotions he found. Some seemed sympathetic to Hastings' plight; others, angry. The only two who seemed wholly unaffected in any way were Gaspar and Van Helsing. "I grow tired of your embellishments. Your story, please, as concisely as possible."

Hastings nodded deferentially. "Of course," he murmured softly. When he began once again, his voice was contrite. He earnestly told of the way he had been led along by his father, unknowingly treading a path that pointed only to darkness. He concluded with his remorse for his inaction, his inability to understand the true meanings of the events occurring around him and his inability to act to prevent them once they were revealed. His face crumbled at the last words, his voice broken and hoarse; the man seemed to be only just holding back tears.

"You may sit," Gaspar said grimly at the conclusion of his tale. "I will now bring forward the evidence against you." He read several excerpts from Warren Gray's missives, and also from the cables sent back to Rome by Van Helsing's team. At long last, he said, "I call upon Gabriel Van Helsing, to share with us the information from his mission to Boxborough."

The hunter stood, and in plain words he detailed their arrival in the town, the strange behavior of the people, and all of Derek Hastings' actions at that point. A collective shudder ran through the crowd as the hunter, with complete dispassion, described the horrors of the tortured and mutilated dead, the warding lines, and the conclusion of the nightmare, with the calling up of a demon in the clearing. "After he regained consciousness, Derek Hastings confessed to me his part in the murder of Anthony Austin, and the others whose bodies formed the confining pentacle around the town. Apparently, three of these individuals were chosen by convenience from the town of Acton, and the remaining two – Anthony Austin and Warren Gray, were killed because they had suspicions of what was truly occurring in Boxborough."

"I must object to this claim," Hastings interrupted suddenly. "I was in fear for my life at the time. I was alone, and he threatened me. This man, sirs, is clearly unstable."

Carl frowned at the words. Unlike the rest of his tale, those words did not ring true at all. He saw strange, indecipherable glances passing between the upper members of the Order, but had no idea what they meant.

"Furthermore," Gabriel continued, ignoring the interruption, "I have good reason to believe that Derek Hastings was the true mastermind of the horrors of Boxborough. If I may be allowed to speak, I believe I can outline a series of events that show conclusively that Derek Hastings was the one manipulating his father, despite the story he has given you today."

Gaspar stared at the hunter a moment before nodding. "I will hear these conclusions momentarily, Mr. Van Helsing. You may be seated." Gabriel sat, and Carl frowned at the man moved out of his sight. What events? What connections? Derek Hastings – the one who had truly been behind it all? Carl had trouble believing that the menace of Joseph Hastings had been a mere smokescreen, designed to camouflage an even deeper evil in his son. It didn't seem –

"At this time, I would like anyone who feels they have relevant information to stand, and speak before the court," Gaspar announced.

A thrill in his stomach, Carl stood. A few surprised glances sped his way, words were murmured too low for him to hear. "Carl Wheldon. You are recognized," Gaspar said formally.

"Thank you," Carl said, taking a moment to get his breath under control. "I believe that Derek Hastings is a victim of circumstance in this case," he began. There was surprise at his stance, given the well-known fact that he too had been present at Boxborough. Carl began to speak, outlining his reasons; speaking of Joseph Hastings and the man's actions, how all had seemed to defer to him. He couldn't see his friend's face as he spoke, but he noticed that Lamar was seated almost directly behind Hastings, an intent look on his face as he listened to the friar. Carl's passionate conclusion, in which he stated that he believed Joseph Hastings to be the true perpetrator of all the evil of the town, was received in silence. Looking around, Carl saw many emotions on the faces of those near him; sympathy, anger, and more complex feelings that he could not determine at a glance. Gaspar said quietly, "Have you anything else to say to the court?"

Carl said confidently, "No."

Gaspar nodded, and then repeated his question to the court. Carl thought certainly that Lamar, as the man most affected by the mission to the town, would now stand and speak. He was slightly stunned when the Jerusalemite refrained from saying anything, and even more surprised by the following words coming from the mouth of the head of the Order. "The room will now clear, but for those whose presence has been required by subpoena."

At that, the entire room, it seemed, gained its feet and made for the door. Carl, who had no paper that stated the necessity of his presence, followed somewhat ruefully. The only people who did not move were those seated before the room, facing Derek Hastings in judgment.

Out in the hall, Carl came across Lamar, who seemed to be gathering his thoughts and did not speak to him for a moment. Once the friar glanced through the slowly dispersing members of the Order, he did not see the hunter. Suddenly, uncomfortably, he remembered the man he had knocked over while leaving the kitchen, and the piece of paper that had fallen from his grasp. A subpoena. "Have you ever been to one of these before?" he asked the Jerusalemite, to turn his thoughts from the subject.

Lamar nodded stiffly. "I spent several months as acting scribe for the courts, yes."

"What happens next?"

"Now the real evidence is heard. Once that is done, the judges will reach a verdict. It is not quite the same as any judicial court of law."

Carl was visibly confused.

Lamar explained, seeing the other man's puzzled look. "The hunters who receive the assignments are always required to be there, by subpoena. The team who follows is rarely needed, or even wanted, to attend."

Carl felt indignation rise up in him. "Why is that?" The words came out a little more sharply than he had intended, but Lamar gave him a look of understanding.

"There is more to training a hunter than simply prowess with weapons. They are trained to resist evil, mentally and physically. It is rigorous, and not many are able to completely defy the influence of evil on their thoughts – we are after all, only human. It is why there are so few completely qualified hunters in the Order, and why Van Helsing is the most valuable of these. He has always excelled at it, and it is a complete puzzlement to most of the trainers how he manages it so effortlessly."

"So that is why he is still in there."

"Yes. Because he will have a clearer view of events, a more objective and distanced perspective. It is also why you should not have spoken up today," Lamar answered.

Carl's face drew into a small scowl. "I thought that you, of all people -"

"I understand," Lamar told him unexpectedly. "I know that you need to feel your input was valuable. I know that you are a bit confused by this – your first mission was to destroy, not capture. But we are not trained to fight off such insidious, malign influences as were occurring in Boxborough. Van Helsing was. After all, we are only human. There is no telling what and how our perceptions might have been colored by events there. Surely you remember how strangely the people acted on our arrival."

"But Van Helsing was drugged!" Carl objected hotly. "I doubt that he was in full possession of his faculties, and that he was not 'influenced' by the evil there!"

Surprisingly, Lamar's eyes disagreed with him. But all he said was, "There is little we can do, regardless. They are making the decision as we speak, and we have already had our say."

Carl sighed, a sound laden with aggravated defeat. He moved to sit on a bench opposite the door. Lamar sat next to him, but Carl was focused on the door's dark wood, turning his thoughts to the events taking place beyond it.

(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(

Well, this is crunch time. We are nearing the end - I'd say we have one, perhaps two more chapters left and my 200 review goal is oh, so close!


	26. Chapter 26

Gabriel left the trial room, closing the door carefully behind him. A decision had been reached and the judges, and Hastings, had already gone. He sighed.

As the room had emptied, Gabriel had stepped forward. He was been the only member of his team who had received a subpoena, and he had not been surprised. Carl's decision to speak up in Hastings' defense had not surprised him either, thought a part of him wanted to say that it had. He had seen the medley of emotions directed at the friar from the moment he began to talk; sympathy and a willingness to listen, but also darker sentiments, including confusion and deep anger.

What had surprised the hunter was that he was the _only_ one who had been ordered to attend. It made sense upon later contemplation; all of Hastings' other detractors were either dead, or an ocean away. Carl and Lamar had already had the opportunity to speak in as much depth as they desired.

Jinnette, Bharat, Gaspar, and several other members of the Order, had been seated in a row, arrayed in order of superiority. Ricardo, the man overseeing all ongoing projects in the catacombs, had nodded to the hunter. Deacon Ceslovas had winked at him. The head gardener for the Vatican might not seem a likely choice for a panel of judges, but the man had worked for the Order his entire life, and was both intelligent and fair. He had been a member of the higher panel for years now. The ten men sitting in front of the hunter were all known to him; however, whether they knew him was another matter. These were the ones who were truly in control within the Order. Gaspar might be the most powerful and visible, but he was by no means alone in making his decisions.

As soon as the door had clicked shut, Gaspar had turned to the hunter with an expectant look on his face. "We are ready to hear the evidence you have against Derek Hastings," he said, any true emotion locked as always behind a formal façade for these weighty proceedings.

Gabriel nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the most telling piece. Or pieces, as the case were.

The parchments were very fragile, and he handled them with a gentleness that many – though the majority of men in this room were not among their number – would be shocked to see him display. Carefully, he unfolded the human-skin vellum so that the writing on each of the five parchments was clear. The cuneiform writing still spiked oddly in the light, wiggling on the page out of the corner of the eye.

Gabriel gritted his teeth, and began to read, in English. "_From far-off realms of smoky fire, where spirits mingle and moan in the glorious home of Lelwani, I call and bind thee, strong spirit. By blood I offer, and with blood I receive, the binding of your soul to this pentacle that I have created. With the gift of Kingu, blood-father of my people, I summon thee. You are forevermore called to do my bidding, heed my word and no other. Child of Angra Mainyu, I name thee -_" He had to stop here, and swallow hard. The words held an unnatural power that stilled the air in the room, searing his throat and bringing a cold sweat to his skin.

Several of the men before him released relieved breaths when he stopped. "I found these five papers within each of the human sacrifices dedicated at the points of the pentacle," he said quietly. Flipping the first sheet over, the name of one of the men of Acton was clearly visible. "In accordance with Persian magic, the true name of the sacrifice is given, as should be that of the summoner, and that of the creature being summoned. The last two required names are missing – from all of these incantations." Arraying each of the papers next to one another, the hunter continued. "These should each be identical, but there are several places where even the untrained can see that they are not." He pointed out clear variations in the cuneiform, so that the differences in the lines of spiky writing were evident. "There are clear errors in these incantations, and each mistake is different."

A few of the scholars looked at one another in distress, the true danger of the situation in Boxborough hitting home. "As I am sure you all know," the hunter continued lowly, "such inaccuracies are infinitely dangerous. At first, I believed that was all these were – mistakes of an inept mind, grasping at a difficult, dead language to produce even more difficult incantations. But I remembered something, given the time to more closely examine these parchments.

"If one does not give a name when binding a summoned demon, that person risks annihilation, and complete destruction. They have no means of controlling what is called up. But there is a means of ensuring that the creature will be bound to an individual. That person does not even have to give their name. Instead, they must make a substitution in the incantation. Instead of using the sacrifice's blood, the summoner substitutes his own blood everywhere the pronoun 'I' appears. It has an equal or greater binding power, forcing the creature to submit to the one bound into a blood-pact."

"That is true," came a precisely accented voice. Gabriel raised a brow, seeing the man for the first time. It was Father Inderpal, whose Indian heritage made him more familiar with the Middle Eastern histories and magicks. He was foremost a scholar, one of the most renowned within the Order. "There is a side-effect to this, however," the man frowned. "It binds the demon to the caster, and should something be amiss in the incantation, the caster is then doubly in the demon's power. A blood pact is heavier on the soul than a binding that is focused simply on names."

"The mistakes in the written incantation make it almost certain that the binding would fail, releasing the demon into the world," Gabriel said softly. "Then, the first thing it would do would be to turn on the one who had entered into the blood pack."

"Joseph Hastings," Gaspar nodded.

"Yes," Gabriel responded. "But one thing struck me as strange. While listening to the incantation, it was clear to me that Derek Hastings had a much better grasp of the Persian language than his father. The warlock made many mistakes," Gabriel said bluntly. "But they were small. Enough to put him at the mercy of what he called up, but not enough that the summoning would fail completely. When one does not have complete grasp of a new language, such . . . precise mistakes are more than mere chance."

His point was valid, but the hunter had more undeniable evidence. "Why should there be any mistakes at all, especially if Derek Hastings was more proficient than his father? If he was indeed, as he claims, subjugated by the warlock and forced into serving him, then any failure on his father's part would also mean consequences for him – after all, they share both blood and name. It would be in Derek's best interests to help, if his story is true – he would not risk the town and family he purports to care for by loosing a demon on the world." The hunter's words were cold and unforgiving. He eyed Hastings in some disgust. The man, gifted by right of his birth with the choice to control his own destiny, claimed to spurn that choice, and all remorse he showed was no more than a persuasive lie. The former mayor's focus was entirely on saving his own skin, truth and justice be damned.

"I – I didn't know . . ." Blinking, the accused could do no more than feebly stammer a defense. Hastings was staring at the hunter in shock. Van Helsing's bloody reputation made it certain that when most people came across his name, the only thing they thought him capable of was killing; certainly not using his mind. The hunter preferred it that way, although he found himself occasionally annoyed by it. But the benefits outweighed any momentary irritation, and it was much better to be underestimated by your opponents. Despite the care Hastings had taken by drugging him, shackling him, having his men attack him, separating his team and keeping him under surveillance, he had still underestimated Gabriel.

The mayor took a deep breath, however. "I will admit that I did not always act wisely," he said reasonably, very controlled. "I will admit to drugging Van Helsing under my father's command, and seeing to it that he was also drugged by his hosts. The man's mind and body was continually inundated with very potent herbs, designed to confuse and fatigue him. My father was amazed that the man was still on his feet, day after day. No doubt he believes what he's saying, but the truth of it is that what he says is false," Hastings protested volubly.

"I very much doubt it," Gabriel snapped, his patience at an end. His next words were icily controlled, his anger tightly reigned. "I do not deny that yes, I felt the effects of the herbs. But the writings, and their mistakes, cannot be denied. If you feel the need, any scholar can verify what I am saying. However, all the evidence I bring against this man is corroborated by the rest of my team – who were, need I add, _not_ impaired in any way. In addition," his tone now was scathing, "_I_ am not the one on trial at this moment."

There was a thoughtful silence, before Jinnette nodded to the hunter to continue. Gabriel's anger was sitting beneath the surface, matched only by the utter disgust he felt whenever he looked at Hastings. The man was a lying murderer. All he had to do now, was prove it. Given what had already been said and done, it was a relatively simple task.

He took a breath, and stepped away. "Hastings," he continued, more levelly, as he turned to face the man. "Would you repeat where it was you were when your father began to sacrifice Lamar Al Ghamdi?"

Hastings stared at him warily. "My father told me to take the position of dedicator, and I stood at Lamar's head."

With those words, words that he could not deny because he had already admitted to them in his testimony, words that Carl had unwittingly repeated and Gabriel had quietly emphasized during the previous half-hour, he condemned himself. But he did not know it yet. Still, _still_ his confidence in his own intelligence surpassed all else. Despite what he had already seen, he believed what Gabriel knew – that the Vatican and the Order were composed of men who, after all, were only men. And men did not know everything.

"But those who stand at the head are not the dedicators," Gabriel contradicted him softly. A few of the men nodded in understanding; the eyes of several lit up as they understood the point he was about to make – the one that would seal Hastings' fate. "The dedicators are those who spill the blood, kill the sacrifice and dedicate the victim's life to the opening of a portal between the worlds. The one who stands at the head is the summoner, no matter what blood bonds may have been entered into the pentacle. You must have known this – in fact, there is no way you could _not_ have known this. If you had not, you would not have said the proper words to open the portal, and the summoning would have failed." In the teaching of such magic, much had been lost. Books had burned, tablets had crumbled to dust. The little information that remained, preserved by history and spared by time, made clear that every detail of a summoning was important. Position and words, enunciation, rhythm and preparation all played an equal role. There was a small margin for error, but the failsafe held true – too many mistakes, and the summoning would fail. It would not unleash horrors into the world, it would simply take its toll from the blood spilled, and refuse to work.

Hastings had sucked in a breath, caught. He tried one more time. "But I didn't know – I only did what Father told me to do -"

"And he told you to proceed with events that would result in his death?" Gaspar asked, coldly reasonable as he pierced the heart of the issue.

Hastings floundered, searching for words, and Gabriel calmly condemned him. "Perhaps Joseph Hastings did not know that while blood, and the giving of a life, would bring the demon into the world, it would require more sacrifice, more blood, to keep it there. All in all," he turned hard eyes on Derek Hastings, "your summoning worked very well."

Hastings opened his mouth, a hot retort ready to fly off his lips, but Van Helsing wasn't finished yet. "It also didn't make sense to me that Ancell would sit in on a conversation with Pardoe and Schoen and know that the pentacle was one of confinement, and then never tell you," the hunter mused softly. "He gave up his life at your order; his dedication to you was never in question. I doubt very much that he would neglect to tell you something of such import, especially if he knew that you believed differently. The only conclusion I can come to is that you knew all along; that you manufactured the fight to rid yourself of a potential threat and place yourself in the proper position for the true summoning."

With each word, Hasting's expression changed. Discarding the mask of a harmless, somewhat cowed and remorseful man, real emotion charged the air, blackly malevolent. If looks could kill, Gabriel was certain he would be dead several times over. Hastings' face was mottled red, eyes glittering with violent fury.

"You were the summoner, but you bound your father into the blood pact, manufacturing mistakes that would be easily missed by someone who did not know the language well. You share his blood, and his name, which would guarantee that the demon would listen to you. Yet all responsibility would fall on Joseph Hastings, and he would be the one to suffer should anything go wrong, which you ensured. At once you rid yourself of a rival, and bound the demon with a direct sacrifice."

"Bastard!" Hastings swore at him. "You're a dead man." The man's voice, low and ragged, was a promise of retribution. Gabriel resisted the urge to sneer derisively; Hastings' very existence turned his stomach.

"Clever," Jinnette murmured lowly. The men at the panel were muttering to one another, and Hastings did not miss their glances and the tone of their voices. The man's temper snapped. Growling lowly, he began muttering several words in an indecipherable tongue, his voice raising and lowering with the incantation. He finished with a shout, confident of the result.

The words had been gratingly painful, scraping along the sanity and senses of the listeners. But the room only shuddered faintly around them. Hastings' face registered shocked dismay, and sudden, ugly fear. He had obviously expected something much more destructive.

Gaspar was scowling, and all the members of the panel of judges were infuriated. "That," Gaspar snapped, "was a small example of the protections in place on the Vatican, which your father so coveted and you, apparently, know so little about. You cannot strike at us here."

Hastings was not to be deterred – even as Gabriel stepped forward to gag him, he snapped out a phrase and directed it, with a gesture, to the men in judgment over him.

But the hunter got in the way. The words bounced harmlessly off him, to ricochet off the walls and spear the air throughout the room, growing ever more powerful as they echoed in the closed space without release. Gabriel said one quiet word, more certain of the Ancient Persian dialect he was speaking than Hastings could ever be. There was no substitute for experience. The bolts of fire and water coursing dangerously through the air disappeared, nullified – their existence erased.

Hastings gaped at him once more. "What _are_ you?" he growled.

"Well trained," Gabriel answered, eschewing the dramatic answer for something that he knew was guaranteed to frustrate and anger the man. He stepped close, and in a trice had gagged the former mayor of Boxborough. Hastings scowled at him. Gabriel turned his back dismissively.

"I would like to know how you were able to read so much of the incantation without being blasted to kingdom come, or prevented by the protections we have in place." The curious speaker was, unsurprisingly, someone Gabriel had never met before. He was a thin and balding oriental man, young despite his lack of hair.

"Practice," Gabriel replied blithely. That was not exactly true – but this man would not believe the truth. Gabriel had been the one to place the indomitable protections about the Vatican, over a thousand years ago. The place had always been different, special somehow. Since laying the protections on this place, he had repaired and modified them; and as creator, he was able to do more within them than anyone else. "I also left quite a lot out."

His answer had been easily accepted, intended as it was to placate. It had been only a short time later that both a decision and a verdict had been reached. The pronouncement was not a surprise to anyone in the room. Derek Hastings, for his crimes of murder, black sorcery, betrayal and perjury, was sentenced to death. The sentence would be carried out three days hence.

The sorcerer, eyes spitting fiery hatred, had been led away, and the panel had dispersed. Gabriel's dismissal was unspoken, and an understood factor of the announcement of the verdict before the panel and accused. News would reach the rest of the Order quickly. Van Helsing was told, before their departure, that Gaspar intended to speak with Carl and Lamar separately, and soon.

The hunter realized, upon seeing a deserted corridor when he left the room, that Gaspar had decided to immediately deal with the other members of his team. There was nowhere else they would be, despite their feelings on the trial. They wanted answers, and because he had stayed in that room, Gabriel would be the only one to give it to them. But Gaspar had gotten there first. He had a short reprieve then, from Carl's emotions and Lamar's questions. He would use it well.

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I didn't really want to write this chapter, but a faithful reviewer nearly begged me to see what was going on behind closed doors, so here it is.I just wantedyou to know that I AM done;please review, and help me reach my goal of 200! Besides, the more reviews I get means I'll post the last 2 chapters (yup, 2, you heard right!) much faster!


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **I'm upping the rating on this chapter to R (M for Mature Audiences Only) because I was seriously grossed out by my research into the history of capital punishment. And because of the scene where you find out what ultimately happens to Derek Hastings. It is not pretty; consider yourself warned.

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Gabriel had only a little time to himself before Carl came looking for him. Gaspar had kept the friar for only a short time, explaining to him what had occurred. Lamar was ensconced for longer, and what the two spoke of behind closed doors was a mystery to the friar. His mind was otherwise occupied.

"So he's guilty."

The voice did not come as a surprise to the hunter, heralded by the noise of a door yielding and footsteps tracing a path over smooth marble. Gabriel was sitting in quiet contemplation in a small, unused chapel. It had been the one where, many months ago, Piotr had approached him with a knife and false confession. The one where his memories, eons of recollections and remembrances, had gently slipped back within his grasp.

"Yes," the hunter sighed, turning to face his friend.

Carl's face was intensely conflicted, confusion shining in grey eyes. He ruffled his hair agitatedly. "How?"

"He manipulated everyone," Gabriel revealed tiredly, hoping that in time his friend would be able to understand. "He put the mistakes into the incantations purposely, ensuring that his father would take the fall for the summoning and at the same time guaranteeing a blood sacrifice for the demon. Ancell posed a threat to him, and so he set student against teacher, knowing that at least one would be eliminated. Anthony Austin and Warren Gray both suspected him, and so had to die."

Carl had dropped into the pew directly across from the hunter, the aisle between them a gaping chasm that swallowed their words whole. "It is a miracle that the Widow Austin and Tanya were spared," he said at last.

"I suspect that was Anthony Austin's doing," Gabriel offered quietly. "The effect of his pentacle, bumbling and maleficent as it was, acted to negate the power of the confining pentacle. It turned the Widow's home into the only truly protected, safe haven in the town."

"And you knew all this, and said nothing to me?"

Gabriel's gaze turned away then. There was fault enough for both of them in this. "Not all, not right away. But I suspected. No, I didn't tell you. You have the right to form your own opinion – and I wasn't certain until I saw Hastings' reaction today."

"His reaction?" Curiosity sparked, dim and low but there, in Carl's eyes.

"He tried an incantation. He wanted to kill everyone in the room, I believe."

Carl whistled lowly. "That explains it, then."

"Explains what?"

The friar looked as if he wished he could swallow his tongue. He flushed uncomfortably, but muttered, "His sentence."

"Death?" Gabriel was too worn down by recent events to care for things like tact.

"Well, yes," he responded, surprised. It was clear to the friar that the judges must have held a personal grudge against the man to be so unyielding in their judgment.

"Don't fool yourself, Carl," Gabriel snorted. "Hastings _earned_ that sentence with the blood of innocents." But he looked sideways at the friar, reaching out with a sense that mortals lacked, and knew the real reason for Carl's stubbornness on this issue. A compassionate man with an innate sense of faith, Carl had never lost his belief in justice. His dedication to that ideal, and all the stubbornness he would devote to seeing it through, was being delicately played on.

Gabriel had wondered if something had occurred in the clearing before the drugs had faded enough for him to wake. He had not sensed it then, so surrounded by evil were they, but it stood out clearly in the spiritual cleanliness of the Vatican. Miniscule threads of a wispy grey were twined about Carl's figure. A small binding, probably set with gestures alone, sitting gently, negligently, upon the friar. It had little power, except to exert a soft, twisting tug on the friar's emotions at certain points. It was harmless, would disappear with Hastings' death. But in the meantime, Carl would feel a disproportionate pity for the mayor, and a sense of injustice about Hastings' fate. The binding was not responsible for his actions – no binding had that power. Free will was a gift that could be relinquished or stolen, but not forced.

But it would help the more telling factors about Hastings' guilt slide away from his mind, and toy with his emotions enough that Carl would seek innocence where none existed.

"What did you say before, about forgiveness?" Carl asked him softly.

Gabriel's gaze hardened. "Derek Hastings has not sought it," he responded. He could remove the binding. As if it sensed his thought, the tendrils twisted harder about the friar.

"How do you know that?" Carl asked sharply.

Removing it might do more harm than good, he realized. Examining it closely, he could see that it was already faint, disintegrating. A glimmer caught his eye – and he smothered a small smile. The change in Carl was eating away at the binding, a small protection but valuable nonetheless. Hastings' death would destroy it. "A man seeking forgiveness does not try to deliberately kill those who would offer it," he explained gently.

Carl sighed, scrubbing his hands down his face. A muffled, "I'm sorry," emerged from behind work-roughened fingers. "I must be more tired than I thought," he shrugged it off. "I don't know why I reacted like that."

I do. "Don't worry about it," Gabriel brushed the apology off easily, but something seemed to fall flat between them, and they were again gripped in an awkward silence.

"I'd like to ask you something." Gabriel reached out, hoping that he would not be rebuffed, and uncomfortable with the question he was posing. He felt damnably awkward, and kept his eyes focused just over Carl's left shoulder. His hands, clenched into fists, were buried in his pockets where no one would discern the small sign of his anxiety.

Carl tilted his head inquisitively at him. "What is it?"

"Don't go to the execution," Gabriel asked simply.

Carl's face drew into a frown, and he sat back. Gabriel tensed at the motion, and waited for the friar to speak. "Why not?"

"I have a bad feeling," was all he could say. It was not enough. He forced himself to relax, though he felt anything but.

"I'll think about it," was Carl's response, slow and ponderous.

The silence came between them again, heavy and stifling. It was minutes only before Carl excused himself.

The next few days were all like that. Gabriel, unsettled by the strangeness in his friend which he could do nothing about, at first sought the friar out. It was made clear to him, however, that Carl preferred to avoid him, and so he returned to his usual routine. He spent the days working with Bharat and the new trainees, honing his skills. He spent the nights sorting through his own memories – something that he had had little time for in the recent past. Thousands of millennia of recollections could not, after all, be absorbed in the month or two he had been given before being sent to Massachusetts.

The hunter spoke with Lamar, and found to his surprise that the Jerusalemite had asked to be sent back to Massachusetts with a large team. Lamar was to head the team, and take joint control of Boxborough with Alicia Hastings. What had happened in the isolated outpost must never be allowed to happen again. Lamar himself seemed at peace with his decision, in a way that was obviously new to him. His inner struggle had quieted, and he had come closer to finding his own answers. Gabriel caught Lamar staring thoughtfully at the scar tracing up his arm from his thumb, and a question was answered for him.

And so the days passed, the minutes racing and the hours dragging, until the execution.

When Gabriel entered the small, subterranean room, he was unsure of what to expect. There were several necessary members of the Order here; the entire panel of judges, himself, Lamar, and several scribes. There were individuals who were vaguely familiar to him from the trial, including one man whose nondescript features nonetheless stood out in the hunter's memory. This man was a supporter of Gaspar, one of the crowd who had insisted that Gabriel be removed from the Vatican during the debacle with the Spear months ago. More than that, however, the hunter remembered him for the astonishing expression of hatred on his face when Carl had spoken up in Hastings' defense three days ago.

Luckily, the friar was not there. Something that had been tensely coiled within the hunter eased at that knowledge.

The room was bare and small – the only item in it was something that had been undisturbed during the Beelzebul's rampages through the catacombs. That was not at all surprising, Gabriel thought sourly. The creature would be loathe to destroy such a toy as this, and had probably taken obscene enjoyment in seeing it here.

It was a sturdy, well-built wooden chair, heavy enough that it did not need to be bolted to the floor. Electric cables ran along the floor to it, and heavy straps were affixed to the arms, legs, seat and neck. Looking at it made the hunter shudder in revulsion, reviving memories of deaths too horrible to contemplate for long. He understood completely the need and the justice behind the execution. He supported it, had little problem with the killing of a murderer. The philosophy of "an eye for an eye" had been long-held among humanity, and he had accepted it completely.

But he had always had trouble understanding the human urge to cause pain. It had begun with such tortures as sawing and scaphism, burning at the stake, breaking on the wheel. As technology advanced, so did humans, refining their means of killing one another. Each method was supposed to be more painless, a better way to kill, than the last.

In a moment of weary truth, Gabriel wished that humanity would stop deluding itself. Death was an absolute punishment, completely necessary when justified beyond doubt. But death was never painless – and the attempts to make it so were often worse than a simple bullet would be.

He turned from these thoughts as Hastings was brought in. The man was wearing the barest of clothes, barefoot and chained. It was beginning, then.

"Do you have any last words?" Gaspar asked him coldly.

"Yes," Hastings responded, oddly serene for a man about to go to his death. He looked about him, a strange curious pride in the amount of people who had shown up. His eyes rested on Gabriel with a particularly vengeful spark. "My name is Derek Hastings," he said coolly, standing tall and straight and ignoring his own messy and rumpled condition. "You execute me here today for the unthinkable crime of dabbling in the dark magicks that you so spurn," he sneered. "I tell you now, that despite the imminent death looming before me, I do not regret a single action! I would do it all again, and my death here will be an example and lesson to those who would follow in my path. They will look on me forever as the sacrifice to your petty ideals. Know that in the hour of my death, you will have created for yourselves enemies beyond reckoning!"

The man's chest was heaving, spittle flying from his mouth as his eyes burned with a fanatic fire. "I will be forever remembered as a martyr to my cause – and you will have created me!" he laughed loudly. "Knowing we can no longer rely on the Vatican, my followers will strike out on their own, creating such things as you have never seen! We will use fire to fight fire, take the enemy's own weapon and turn it on him – something that no one in this room has the courage to dare to do! And we will wipe all evil from the face of the Earth – and you, for your betrayal of our cause, will be among their number! So, go ahead," he shouted triumphantly. "Kill this shell of flesh. You will free my soul to continue its good work! I will be rewarded for my deeds, when I arrive at the gates of Heaven!"

A cold chill settled over the hunter as the fanatic finished. There was a long silence, as each person in the room waited for him to continue. Breathing hard, a cocksure and cruel smile on his lips, Derek Hastings moved of his own volition to sit in the electric chair. He made himself comfortable, a smile of patient expectation on his lips as several men secured the straps around his body. He accepted the dousing with water, the placing of the electrodes, with an aplomb that was sickening to see.

"For your crimes," Jinette said grimly, "You are sentenced to death in the electric chair. Electric current shall pass through your body until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul."

With a nod of his head, it began.

Gabriel knew the switch had been thrown when Derek Hastings' eyes slipped closed. His body jerked against the restraints, stiffening in the chair. Muscles moved uncontrollably under his skin, twitching and roiling ineffectively.

The sound and feel of electricity filled the air; the room began to reek of the stench of burning flesh. The man's body spasmed, the sight both horrifying and satisfying to those watching.

When Hastings' eyes flew open, the hunter tensed, though many in the room seemed to write it off as a random muscle tic, induced by the ever-increasing current flowing through his body.

When Hastings' mouth began to move, however, impossibly chanting and hurling forth words of a final incantation, concern grew. Murmurs became shouts, and the panel of judges looked helplessly to one another – unable to stop the execution, but equally unable to stop Hastings. Power built in a roaring crescendo, screaming in the panicked hubbub as it waited to be released -

A shot rang through the air, and the light in Hastings' eyes died as the bullet pierced his heart. Lips slackened in death, but the body still moved and jerked, batted thoughtlessly about by the relentless electricity coursing through dead flesh. Blood grew, an ever-spreading stain that colored the front of the man's shirt. The electric current died as someone, somewhere, gathered their wits enough to throw the switch.

Gabriel returned his gun to its concealed holster, a slight frown marring his features. "Requiescat in pace," the hunter murmured. He stepped forward, the first in the room with the courage, or the will, to check the body. A look of revulsion, barely realized and quickly dissolved, shot across his expression like quicksilver. But he laid his fingers against Hastings' neck, searching for a pulse.

"He's dead," he announced to the room at large. Gabriel turned expressionless hazel eyes on the panel of judges. "But I suggest you cremate him. Immediately."

It was a safety precaution rarely employed, but the worried expressions of Bharat, Ceslovas and even Jinette were enough to ensure him that it would be done.

He surveyed the room then, and to his relief saw nothing that sparked his instincts; there was no sign that the magics Hastings had attempted to call up had been properly harnessed or released. He had killed the caster before the proper words had been said, thankfully. The power had dissipated, bleeding back to its source as Hastings bled out his lifeblood onto the stones.

Even more happily, there was no sign that Carl had been there at all, profoundly relieving the hunter. He didn't want his gentle friend to have seen that, especially with the binding influencing him.

Turning, Gabriel left and began to walk the corridors, blessedly free of the stomach-turning odor of burning flesh. He made his way upward, with only one desire – to wash, and change clothes, leaving the last remnants of Derek Hastings behind.

His feet took him out of the catacombs and into the light of the Vatican complex, as his mind took him down other roads.

Derek Hastings. The man's belief had been so extreme, it ultimately became a betrayal of everything he purported to stand for. His faith was a fanatic quest, fuelled by burning desire and complete conviction in his principles. It was pitiably sorrowful – but not enough to excuse the man's actions. Murder was never excusable. Other instances, similar circumstances, floated to the top of his mind and he frowned with the remembrance.

Hunter and destroyer, he was known among man. But Derek Hastings had been a true Destroyer, seeking to annihilate his enemies while becoming one of them himself. It was a convoluted enigma, a twisted puzzle of human existence that proved the struggle presented to each person, each day. To uphold oneself, one's beliefs, without deteriorating into mindless violence simply because it was possible, and increasingly acceptable, to do so. Gabriel shook his head. When God gave mankind free will, He had knowingly relinquished all control over man's fate into the hands of mankind itself. It was a gift of love that saw the inherent faults of the flesh, and loved not despite or because of those faults, but in complete acceptance of them. For ultimately all that was done to man was done by man, by free will, and choice. It was a choice of being either true or perfidious. It was a blessing and a curse, and for all his time among them, Gabriel had yet to see how mankind would use the gift.

He found himself in front of the false wall that concealed the entranceway to his chamber. Looking around carefully, he tripped the mechanism and proceeded to his room. After washing and changing clothes, he proceeded to the kitchens. It was early, but there would be food prepared for the evening repast. Taking what he needed without being seen was ridiculously easy.

Wearing nondescript clothing and a short jacket, following an inner sense that tugged on his soul, Gabriel left the Vatican and proceeded once more, unarmed, into the city.


	28. Chapter 28

He knew the exact moment when Hastings' grip on life loosened, and the spirit of the man was whisked away. He couldn't for the life of him tell how he knew, but he did. He felt less remorse than he ought, he knew – he simply felt freer. Which made no sense to Carl – shouldn't his guilt have increased, now that he knew Hastings was beyond hope of redemption from any but God?

Instead, he remembered Mathilde Austin's raw grief at her husband's senseless death; the sorrowful faces of Tanya and Ben. He recalled his own acute unease at Derek Hastings' attitude towards him, and the night where he had tried so ineptly to explain to the hunter how he felt, and how Gabriel understood him anyway. He remembered Derek Hastings' efforts at convincing them to join him; the man's certainty that they would one way or another. The strange gleam in his eyes when he looked at them, his easy dismissal of Ancell's aggression toward Lamar. His drugging of Gabriel. And Carl wondered how all these things, now piling up thickly in his brain, could have been so completely forgotten.

Then, he remembered his conversation with Lamar, the few times he had spoken with the hunter before and after the trial. Realization was ugly, and he knew with sudden shame that he had been swayed by evil, his perceptions somehow twisted and manipulated. Disgust and humiliation warred within him.

But now he was left utterly conflicted, confronting fact and feeling in confusion that gripped him tightly, and refused to let him go. Gabriel had been right, in a manner. But the hunter had also admitted that Carl was right, as well. Mercy was underrated, seen as a weakness rather than strength on the part of both friend and foe. Carl knew, intellectually, that Hastings had committed awful crimes. But the part of him that knew he would never be able to draw a weapon and fire on a living being shied away from so final and absolute a punishment as death. Try as he might, however, he could see no other recourse. They could have kept the man imprisoned for life, yet unless his tongue was cut out, they risked the entire Vatican and Eternal City, should something go wrong. He was determined in his evil, yet Carl's pity was still the most prominent emotion that he felt. He could not reconcile that with the ruthless actions that the Order had taken, and for a moment he felt very young indeed.

So the friar left his workbench in the catacombs, to head for sunlight and quiet, somewhere he could think. He had not attended the execution today, his sense of caution and the memory of his friend's quiet, pleading request winning out over his sympathy for Hastings. He was suddenly glad of it, knowing instantly that he would have regretted seeing a man electrocuted to death. He had heard plans of the new device, a means of execution that was slowly being developed in the Order and also independently within different countries. Bare whispered rumors, horror stories of what had happened to criminals when the chair had failed, flitted through his mind and were firmly shut away.

He came to one of the highest pinnacles in the Vatican, climbing flights of stairs to ascend away from the people, and think. A cool breeze was blowing, the last sign of winter caressing Rome before being pulled away by rising summer. The sun was brighter, for it was only mid-afternoon, and Carl took a cleansing breath.

The activity in the St. Peter's Square, stretching out below him, was at a minimum. He let his eyes drift outside the borders of Vatican City, to Rome beyond. It was a magnificent sight. There, with only the wind and the stone saints for companionship, Carl closed his eyes, and began to order his thoughts and feelings.

It took time for him to come to a conclusion. The sun hung lower in the sky, signaling the dying of the day, by the time he was through.

A true self-examination was never easy. Carl had faced some hard facts this day. Perhaps – well, more than likely – he was not cut out for field work. He felt he had failed in his duty, allowing himself to be so used by their enemy. It was a little thing, but he had not known to resist, and so had been ensnared. Next time, who was to say what could happen? He was not prepared for the sometimes necessary violence inherent with the position, despite his academic prowess with weaponry.

He had no idea what, if anything, to say to the hunter. He had the feeling that Gabriel would feel nothing amiss, that he had known all along about the impact of Hastings' actions on Carl. If true, that was knowledge that the friar could do nothing with; why would his friend allow such to remain, when he was more than capable of stepping in, and helping?

Gabriel had also been right about Hastings. Carl still felt firmly, free of influence of evil, that there must have been another way to deal with the situation, instead of instantly and reflexively responding to immediately kill the warlock. But that did not change the fact that he had been wrong to think the man as innocent as he claimed. It was a mistake that he didn't know how to apologize for. Furthermore, Carl didn't know if he wanted, or was able to accept, forgiveness. He doubted that he deserved it.

For a man of the cloth, going to confession was not a simple matter. When you knew that you were baring your soul not to a nameless representative of the Lord, but to a friend and colleague who was human enough to judge you, courage was required. Having examined his words and actions from every angle, Carl gathered all his courage, and descended to the church. Slipping into a confessional was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he did it anyway.

Half an hour later, after a serious discussion with Jinette, he left to find Gabriel. There were too many things left unsaid between them.

He had searched for hours, well into the night, and was still unable to find the hunter. With a thoughtful frown, he recalled the time the hunter had spent in the Vatican after recovering his true identity. Oftentimes he would disappear for days with only vague explanations to his absence. Even Carl had no idea where the man truly went, knowing only that if he was still within the Vatican, he was deeply sequestered beyond Carl's ability to find him.

Retreating to his rooms for the night, he puzzled on the strange occurrence, but slept much better than he had in days. He rose in the morning to look for Gabriel once more. Searches of the gardens and outbuildings, the Apostolic Palace and the hunter's quarters, revealed nothing. By the time the midday meal was served, he was confident that the man was no longer in the Vatican.

After eating, he resigned himself to the fact that the hunter would be back on his own time, and he would have to wait. It struck him as slightly funny that, even after the entire mess with the Spear of Longinus, he had not been aware of when Gabriel had taken to disappearing for days on end. He had not noted the reappearances of the hunter in his life, and his own lack of perception niggled at him unrelentingly.

He wryly resigned himself to returning to work; Gabriel was well able to take care of himself, and would appear when he was done with whatever it was he was doing. Finishing his meal, he headed down once more into the catacombs. It was when he returned to his workbench that afternoon that he saw the first note. It was a small piece of paper folded and left conspicuously where he would see it. He opened it, and was frozen into immobility by what he found.

_Wheldon - You are a traitor to our cause, sympathizer to evil. We know who you are, and will be watching closely. Take your steps cautiously; we are waiting. Should you do anything further to betray us, we will know and strike. Your days are limited._

It was not familiar handwriting to him, which meant that he did not know whoever had written the note. His name was clearly written so that there was no mistaking who the message was intended for. It was frightening, disconcerting, and the most worrying part was the signature. It was not a name; rather, a distinctive mark that sent a shudder tickling down Carl's spine. It slanted across the page, looking somewhat like an inverted cross. When he held the note away from him, however, it was chillingly clear. Not a cross at all, but a knife or dagger. A threat.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped, whirling in a panic. He found himself face-to-face with the elusive hunter. "Where have you been?" he demanded, gasping in surprise.

Gabriel shrugged. "Out and about," he responded vaguely. His smile slipped away as he examined the friar closely, noting the white face and racing breath. "Are you all right?"

Carl's brain froze.

"Carl. What's wrong?" a concerned look now, and Gabriel's eyes seemed to lose their distant gaze and focus in on him.

His words dried up. Even drawn in by questioning hazel eyes, Carl could not bring himself to tell Gabriel about the threatening note. Instead he smiled, a rough caricature of expression that felt brittle and false. "Nothing," he said instead, crumpling the paper in his fist and stuffing it into a pocket. "Nothing at all." Even as he said it, he didn't know why he didn't tell Gabriel. Two words stuck to his senses, dictating his actions. _Watching closely_. But how?

That was not important in this moment, with his friend staring worriedly at him, waiting for a response that he would be able to believe. Carl took a deep breath, and another, forcibly calming himself. And in the worried hazel eyes watching him as he collected himself, he found the hope that fixing what he had broken might not be so difficult as he feared.

He remembered why he had been searching, so avidly, for the hunter. "We have to talk," he said quietly, shoving his panic down as far as he could, hoping Gabriel didn't see it. "About Boxborough, and about Hastings."

Gabriel nodded slowly, and something in his eyes told Carl that he wasn't fooled. But the hunter decided not to push it. "All right," he answered the friar.

"Not here," Carl told him distractedly, and he took quick strides, leading the hunter out of the catacombs and into the light.

There were many things between them, creating an awkwardness in their friendship that had never existed before. As he climbed the stairs out of the underground lab, Carl prayed that the words would come to him, that he would be able to make everything right. Caught up in his worries of the here and now, the note he had received moments ago slipped to the back of his mind. In this moment, there was nothing more important than the friendship he had not even known he needed to salvage. But now, nothing would stop him from putting things right. All he needed was a chance. Glancing back, Gabriel met his gaze and smiled. In that motion, Carl knew that the chance was his – all that was important now was what he did with it.

_Fin_

Sequel to this fic is THE SICARII

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I want to thank all my reviewers. You guys are the ones that make this happen, with your words of praise, little tidbits of thought, questions, speculation and yes, even confusion. I treasure every response I receive, and try my best to respond if not in email, than in the content of the fic itself.

As for THE SICARII – my bio holds all the pertinent and usually the more updated info, but for now I'm going to take a break from my almost 24/7 typing. Your encouragement means a lot to me – it's what keeps the plot bunnies dancing in my brain. Thanks, and cookies, to all!


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